A Means To An End
by MidLifeCrisis
Summary: The time has come for Logan to terminate what remains of Weapon Plus Program or die trying. Sequel to MORE THAN YESTERDAY LESS THAN TOMORROW. Rated M for Language and adult sexuality. SUSPENDED.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Talk about your Technicolor flashbacks! Been here. Done this. There's a ratty t-shirt at the bottom of my pack to prove it.

My butt hairs started twitching half hour ago when Vic ordered us to secure all loose items and strap on oxygen masks before taking the Blackbird well over a hundred kilometers up. The fucking Thermosphere! When Charles said we were to rendezvous at a secure location, this ain't what I had in mind.

But it's amazing up here. Diamond studs on a shroud of blackest black. Sheets of light ripple across endless time. Halos of color ring orbs of pure energy. Remote as a celibates promise and cold as a polar bear's ass,(1) space is still unbelievably beautiful.

We bank hard left. "Holy shit!" What dominates the view is big as a city block and maybe twenty, twenty five story's tall; looks like a cross between a flying aircraft carrier and a submarine. White, blue and red lights sparkle against a dove gray hull. She's got a designator number and wears the crests of the United Nations and—I'll be fucked! Strategic Hazard Intervention, Espionage and Logistics Directorate.

Cutting the thrusters so we're almost hovering, Vic radios, "Blackbird to Ares control, permission to dock."

"Affirmative Blackbird. Transmit security code."

Slowly, like a jaded slut, Ares' hatches yawn open and Vic eases the Blackbird in like she's still got a cherry.

Picture perfect, he sets us down and cuts power. Hatches slide closed behind us and the comm. unit barks, "Wait for the escort to disembark your vessel."

Ya think? A depressurized, zero gravity, zero oxygen chamber's the perfect deterrent to overzealous idiots. Even a space suit wouldn't be much good. Just open the hatches and it's a long space walk home.

K-chunk! Screech. The jet shudders and over the comm. we hear, "Docking bolts secure."

Might not be able to get off the plane yet but that doesn't stop me unstrapping from my seat. Curiosity's about to gimme a rash—or maybe it's this damn leather costume Charles insists on.

The restraints tethered to my chair undulate like snakes as I glide forward grabbing onto the seatbacks to keep from hitting the ceiling. Zero gravity's a blast once the inner ear and gut figures which way's up or down.

From Cyke's greenish complexion, I'm guessing his gut's only thinking up, as in up-chuck. "Feelin' puny, Cyke?."

"I'm fine," he replies.

"Uh huh." Just to prove him a liar, I make a gagging noise.

"Fuck you," he croaks and stuffs his face in the barf bag.

Storm nails me, "Logan that was cruel. Besides, I seem to recall some gossip I heard about you and a certain night time sortie."

Grinning smugly, I feel a twinge of guilt 'cuz her café au-lait complexion's definitely more au- lait than café. Don't mind pissing off the Fearless Leader, he's had a burr up his ass since we got word of this mission. But Storm's all right, she doesn't deserve the aggravation. My best pal, in the pilot's seat, grinning from ear to ear's gonna get my boot up his ass for his big mouth.

A low whistle escapes my lips. This hanger's straight out of a Star Trek movie or something. A vast hemispherical chamber of brushed metal; I'll lay down a week's pay it's adamantium and heat resistant ceramics. It's long as a football field, not quite as wide and high enough to stack two or three Blackbirds and still maneuver freely; sort of makes ours look like it was outfitted with bargain shop rejects.

Fore and aft, port and starboard it looks like there are lifts and passage ways girded by electronically controlled hatches. Can't miss the retinal scanners imbedded in the bulkhead or the touch pad manual overrides. Twelve feet or so above the main deck, four glassed- in observation platforms glow blue-white protruding beyond putty gray bulkheads.

A series of lights flash, there's an audible whoosh, my ears pop and I'm feeling my full weight as air and artificial gravity's restored. I'm not a big fan of artificial anything. The air's stale and dry; draws the moisture right out of your cells. Gonna find the Post Exchange and suck down couple litres of liquid. Temperature's not exactly cozy either. Shrugging my shoulders against the chill, my healing factor kicks in raising my internal thermostat a notch or two.

Some color comes back into Cyke's and Storm's faces just as a pair of hatches slide open and two escorts approach the Bird. The comm. drones, "You may lower your ladder."

Vic snorts and says to us, "These guys are seriously into formalities," before replying, "Aye, aye."

He's man with a sense of humor I can appreciate and takes it one step further when we step onto the hangar deck. "Permission to come aboard?" he spouts crisply while saluting with his left hand.

Our escorts, mere kids in their early twenties, don't react one way or the other to Vic's slight. As if programmed, the girl replies, "Permission granted. Welcome aboard the Ares. Please step this way."

The man—er boy really; if he shaves once a week I'd be surprised, instructs, "Your retinal profiles must be loaded into the database for security purposes. This is painless but will take a few moments…."

Security purposes, my ass! We'd be space debris if these guys don't know who we are. Call me paranoid but this smacks a slick way to get the Team registered. Only way I'm registering'll be at my funeral and then I won't give a shit.

"Excuse me," Cyke interrupts. "You don't want a retinal scan from me."

"Uh! Oh! Why's that sir?"

"Have you people not been briefed on our mutant capabilities?"

The kid's bluffing. Clearing his throat, he straightens his backbone. "Of course. But I've got my orders."

Cyke, for the first time this entire trip, cracks a wicked grin. "Don't say I didn't warn you.," and takes a place at the back of the line.

The kid looks at me and I shake my head. "Pass," I growl.

"Sir, if you don't comply further access into the station is denied."

I'm so heartbroken I think I'll curl up in a corner and cry! Shrugging, I move back toward the Bird.

Cyke asks, "I got a good reason but what's your deal?"

"Are you guys fuckin' stupid? You've worked with these bozos before. So've I when you were still sucking your thumb. Since when has a retinal scan been part of the plan?"

Vic weighs in, "¿Qué estás hablando?"

Back at him in Spanish, "MRA is what I'm talkin' about."

"Oh for Christ sake, Logan," Cyke grouses. "You're taking paranoia to a new level, even for you."

"Fuck I am. You all can do what you like but nobody's scannin' me."

A hatch abruptly slides open. Standing with arms braced against the bulkhead is one red faced, orange haired, huge, ugly motherfucker. His bristly walrus mustache twitches as he speaks in a thick Boston accent, "Wolverine! Should've known you'd stir it up. "

Excuse me. Who the hell are you, bub? For a second I feel that buzz set up deep inside my head. A memory fast forwards across my minds eye. Operation Eagle's Talon. April 1980. C-130 transport planes. RH-53 helicopters. Great Salt Desert of Eastern Iran. Sandstorms. Mission aborted. Bug out. Chopper clipped a C-130. Eight killed. A few of us made it including this smart ass in front of me: Thaddeus Dugan.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare him straight in the eye, "Just getting warmed up, Dugan."

"Save the heat for later," he replies and thrusts his right hand out. "Good t'see ya, Logan."

I ain't reciprocating. We got history and it ain't all that peachy. "Tell me I'm wrong about the scans."

"It's a don't ask, don't tell kind of situation."

"I'm askin' Dum Dum and if ya know what's good yer tellin'."

Cyke interrupts, "Chill Logan," He's got a cagey look plastered on his face as he steps up to the scanner. "I think I've got the solution."

My reply, "So do I," comes reinforced: Snickt!

"You've got no creativity, no finesse," Raising his visor, a red beam shoots out. There's a thump, like a fist punching into a wall. The scanner lens cracks, littering the deck with glass.

"Dammit Cyke! Ya call that finesse?"

"You're just pissed I beat you to it."

"Yeah! Life's a bitch sometimes."

Behind us, I sense a mix of emotions ranging from shock to disapproval to fall on your ass hilarity Let's see if I can guess who's what without looking.

Dugan clears his throat, "If you puds are done screwing around, we've got a deadline to meet."

He's chapped but needs us so his ire's directed at the poor security officer, "What part of concussive eye beams didn't you understand, soldier?" With an expression that'll melt the polar ice cap, he motions us through.

Licking my thumb and tracing a tally in the air, "Score one for the home team."

"Watch out for the rebound," Cyke lips quietly.

The rebound wasn't long in coming. With the gee-whiz technology aboard this tub, I'm blown away by metal detectors. How fuckin' useless can ya get?

Just about to step through, a claxon blares. Growling, "Shut the fuck up!" I spike the offending buggers, setting off a shower of sparks.

Challenging Cyke, I gloat, "Howzat fer finesse and creativity?"

"Doesn't count."

"Bullshit!"

"Liberty Island."

Aw fuck! So knock off a couple style points and lose the smug grin before I wipe it off your puss.

Didn't know it could be done, but Dugan's face goes redder than the mop on his head. Projecting my best shit eating grin, I suggest, "Hey Dum Dum, there's good drugs for high blood pressure, don't ya know."

The whoosh of another set of automatic hatches and we're ushered into a Buck Rodgers style conference room. "Well hell," I say. What's this? Birthday, funeral? No wait! The apocalypse.

Avengers and Justice League! I ain't seen a gathering of the who's who of costumed do-gooders like this in—damn if I remember.

Surrounded by so much spandex and ballistic resistant rubber, I'm thinking our leather monkey suits ain't so bad after all. Least the X-Men don't come across like ballerina's on steroids.

Dugan points to half dozen empty seats and like good kiddies, the Team settles in. Not me and he gives me another one of his quit fuckin'around stares. Pushing Dum Dum's buttons is almost as fun as pushing Cyke's but the real reason I ain't sitting's because I focus better on my feet.

I'm not the only one either as a pair takes a stance a few feet away. Freelancers most likely because they're suited up in street clothes, more or less. The big one, a good three inches taller than me and I'll bet a hundred pounds heavier, looks fresh from a Hells Kitchen gang bang draped in gold chains and one of those months worth of paychecks athletic suits. The other's average in build, wearing a t-shirt with a skull plastered across his chest and has a better don't- fuck- with- me frown than I do. He's wearing biker leathers the likes of which would take me more than a couple cage fights to pay for.

I'm getting that weird feeling running up and down my spine. I've known these guys in a past life; probably worked with them. Inhaling, I get a snootful of cheap cologne. Pinching my nose, it's too late. I sneeze loud enough to earn a few sideways glances and a Gesundheit which I don't acknowledge. Divining enough; I _have_ known them, but where? And what the fuck are their names?

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dugan begins. "I believe you're all familiar with one another so I'll dispense with intros and get straight to the point. We have intelligence that a previously unknown renegade mutant faction is planning a nationwide disruption of New Year's Eve celebrations in protest against the Mutant Registration Act. We believe they've planted various explosive devices around major US cities timed to detonate at midnight."

A babe in a body hugging, black jumpsuit with a funky red hourglass shape on her belt asks, "Who or what are we up against?" She's real familiar; biblical sense familiar but with so many bodies in the room I'm not close enough to parse her scent. Damn this memory of mine. Lot's came back but just as much hasn't.

Save your questions for the end of the briefing," Dugan replies and has an aide hand out some kind of mini disks. "In the interest of saving time, we prepared a dossier. Everything we've got on 'em is included on these."

Saving time? How 'bout spoon feeding the 'shrooms what you want them to know. Or worse; glossing over what you don't. Dossier's don't do squat compared to verbal Q and A—can't sense gut reactions to the hard questions.

"Who's 'we' and how long have you known about this threat?" comes a sarcasm spiked question. Damn! It's Cyclops. Gotta ask him what his beef is with SHIELD.

Dugan doesn't answer the question but it's a good bet SHIELD's probably known something was up for a couple weeks, at least.

I sense deceptiveness as he barrels on with his spiel. "Think along the lines of nine-eleven in a dozen major cities."

"So the man puts a lid on New Year's Eve celebrations," says a voice from behind I don't recognize.

"Politically and practically inexpedient," Dugan whips back.

Somebody else grills, "You're saying the locals don't have a handle on this?"

"The local authorities are handling their own jurisdictions; in as much as they're capable."

"That's a crock," declares the gang banger. "Every major metropolitan area has specially trained personnel for just this kind of thing. Mandated by Homeland Security, for crying out loud."

"Correct," Dugan says. "And all of you will be teamed with special divisions."

"Then why call us in on this at all?" voices another.

"The scope of the threat is believed to be credible and extensive…."

So what? Bomb threats, even nationwide don't rate a pow wow like this.

A voice to my right snipes, "And the threat comes from a mutant source."

There's the crux of it and the comments and questions are flying fast and furious.

Raising his voice over the racket, Dugan continues, "…Therefore local law enforcement asked Mutant Affairs for an assist."

Ah shit! Here we go. If there's ever a clusterfuck in the making, Mutant Affairs is behind it.

I ain't the only one developing a severe case of crabs over shackin' up with Mutant Affairs. The biker dude standing next to me says, "No way in hell an I putting my ass on the line for a bunch of Nazi wanna-be's bent on seein' mutants collared, castrated and caged."

Dugan glares, "Lemme set you straight, Castle…"

Castle? Damn! Frank Castle, Captain, U.S.M.C. Here goes the brain buzz again. This time it's a wavering image of narrow city streets choked by rickshaws and motor scooters. Seedy bar, cheap, warm beer, pocket stripping poker. Urban patrols, sniping Viet Cong and firefights. Good guy to have covering your six even if the bastard beat me six ways to Sunday at poker.

"There's a bunch of you….," Dugan's eyes sweep the room briefly settling on half a dozen, me included. "….walking around freely at the pleasure of Homeland Security and Mutant Affairs, among others. Work with 'em and keep walking free."

Popping and inspecting a claw, I challenge, "That some kind of a threat, Dum Dum?"

Stone cold, he stares me down. "Think of it as a prophecy, Wolverine."

Sure is and it turns my stomach thinking about it. At the core, outfits like Mutant Affairs are divisive at best. Factor in mother fucker's like Stryker and you're goose stepping with genocidal fanatics.

Dugan moves right along, "Now I'll turn this dog and pony show over to Commander Hill…"

In walks an Amazon of a babe. Six feet tall, attitude to match and dressed in fatigues; she's got a fit body that gets my attention.

"…she'll give the gouge and divvy out assigned locations," Dugan concludes.

"Thanks sir," she says to Dugan and launches right in. "Listen up people. You've all been selected for this assignment based on unique abilities, expertise and reputation..."

Reputation! What the fuck she been smoking? Well yeah, the Justice League's squeaky clean far as I've ever heard. As for the rest of us, it's a good bet there's been some fence straddling and that's generous.

She pushes a couple buttons, "However, some of you are more skilled in the area of high explosives than others. In light of that, please pay close attention." A display screen lights up just as the overhead lights dim.

Whoop-de-do! Just like film strip day in grade school.

"This is admittedly basic," Hill admits as the presentation wraps up. "But our expectation is once on location, each team will organize themselves to maximize effectiveness and safety." Her eyes sweep the room. She looking for challenges or validation?

"Ok. Listen up," she commands. "West Coast Avengers, we want you people covering L.A., San Francisco, Seattle and Las Vegas. Great Lakes Avengers you've got Chicago. Justice League you'll be spending New Years Eve in New Orleans, Miami and Washington DC. Your call who goes where. X-Men we're keeping you in your own backyard, New York City."

This is the stupidest thing I've seen in a long while. Why all the complications, expense and high drama assembling a crew like this when a simple message to our HQ's or bases would get the job done? Don't take a lot of brains to figure there's a hidden agenda.

"One more thing," Hill silences the minor racket in the room. "Since personal communications devices are jammed while on board Ares, you're welcome to utilize our communication center for limited personal use before departure. We suggest you alert family members to avoid crowds for the next twenty four hours."

This is one perk I'm gonna take advantage of. We bugged out of Canada in a big hurry. Charles was cool about diverting so we could deliver Matt right to his dad but the trip was tough on Susie.

Queuing up at the rear of a short line outside what can be described as a row of your basic airport style phone booths: High tech tub like this and a fuckin' phone booth? Gimme a break.

I'm getting strange looks. Yeah, believe it or don't; the Wolverine's actually got some ties back home. It's nobody's fuckin' business so I repel them with a death glare and growl.

Cyke, just ahead of me, mutters, "Got flatulence or something, Logan?"

I crack half a grin. "Better hope not."

"Trust me," he says.

It's down to Vic, Cyke and me waiting our turns and Vic comments, "Something about this mission doesn't seem right."

"Anything involving SHIELD is never right," Cyke replies.

"Tell me about it." My reply's aimed at both comments. If the half assed briefing doesn't set off alarms the political undertones should have you running for cover. "How's it feel to be the governments ass wipe, bub?"

"I think you're right, amigo," Vic agrees. "Betcha a bottle of Jose Ceurvo we'll have a press tail."

"Mmm, hmm," Cyke concurs. "Plastered all over CNN how the good mutants took down the bad and oh by the way, the good guys; they're all registered."

"Not all," I say. "And I'll tell ya something else I ain't real impressed with: Charles settin' us up like this."

"Always paranoid, huh Logan? There's no way Charles would set us up."

A communication pod opens up and just as Vic takes his turn he says, "Gotta agree with Cyke on this."

I'm gonna puke! With the right motivation anybody'll set anybody up. I'd like to be wrong this time but I ain't betting on it. "Yer both suffering from cranial- rectal inversion."

"Ever going to trust anybody, Logan?"

This topic stinks like a loose b.m.. Time to dump it. "So, what's your problem with SHIELD?"

Cyke's jaw locks up, "Short story but this isn't the place."

I nod. Gotta couple short stories of my own best told over several bottles of cheap bourbon. Guess that knocks him out from hearing them. "Callin' Julia?" I ask to change the subject.

"Uh huh," he replies just as two pods free up.

Glancing at my watch, it's getting late and I'm not sure Susie's going to answer. Neither of us pick up on calls unless we recognize the caller ID. Can't even guess what it's going to read from a space station. Four rings; it's just as I thought and I hear: "You've reached Doctor Susan Harris. If this is urgent please dial 212-….."

Muttering, "Ya da ya da," and rapping my knuckles against the glass enclosure it's like, crap sakes, what's wrong with a simple leave a message after the beep?.

" ….all other's please leave a message after the tone."

Beeeeeeep. Sheesh! 'Bout time. "Hey darlin'. It's me. Pick up." It's only got about thirty seconds before the thing switches off. "Ok, guess you're busy. I'm ok…."

There's a clunk and rustle. "Hey! Where are you?" comes her silky voice.

"Wouldn't believe me if I told ya. How ya doin'?"

"Great," she says with satisfied emphasis. "Got a fire in the fireplace and a pot of Stroganoff…."

"Rub it in, darlin'."

"Take heart, fearless warrior, the Stroganoff's for you."

Chuckling, I reply, "Well if that's true, you're forgiven."

"Mighty generous Bright Eyes. Hey!"

"Hay's for horses. What?"

"Har har. Allen called to say Matt got in safe and sound. He sends his thanks."

Son of a bitch better be grateful.

Vic taps on the glass and signals he's going pre-flight the jet. I gesture thumbs up. "Darlin', I only got a minute or two. I want you to do something for me."

"Ok."

"I want ya to go over to School and stay there tonight."

"Ok. What's up?"

"Probably nothing but I just wanna know you're safe."

"I'm guessing you'll tell me all about it when you get home."

"You know it." But if it all goes clusterfuck, you'll be seeing it on the news.

"Any idea when you'll be home?"

"When the targets're neutralized."

She sighs, "That tells me so much. Ok. You just be careful, you hear me Bright Eyes."

"Always am. Love ya."

"Love you too."

Cyke and I exit our pods at the same time and it feels like I walked into wall of shock and grief. What the hell? "Scott?"

He shakes his head and stares at the deck. "I don't believe this."

My stomach knots. "Julia?"

"Robert. He wrecked his car. Jule said they don't know how but whatever happened, it caught fire."

"Dead?"

He nods.

"Aw hell." He was all right. "Julia say when it happened?"

"Yeah, right after we all bugged out. Not far from the house."

Goddammit!. Now it's my turn to feel—guilt! He was on his way to file the papers Susie and I signed. Slamming my fist into the bulkhead and leaving a respectable dent I snarl, "Fuck it all!" It's as much an expression of my grief over Eastham as a reaction to the jarring pain shooting through my fist and up my arm. Dumb Ass is me! "Let's get back t' New York and get this thing over with."

(1)credit goes to RhiannonUK for this marvelous "Logan-ism".


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Logan, X-Men belong to Marvel.

CHAPTER TWO

I am not, repeat, NOT a happy camper. I don't want to spend New Years Eve at Xavier's and then to make it more special than it already is, I have to put up with Marla Jennings. Topping it off, whatever Logan deemed so vital that I sequester myself away seems to be a non-event. Oh well; Murphy rules.

I'm making my way towards Logan's old room as that woman and Wendy are descending the stairs.

"Oh hey. It's Doctor Sue," Wendy exclaims buoyantly.

I do like the girl, "Hey yourself, sweetheart."

"Doctor Harris, what are you doing back so soon?" Doctor Jennings asks in an irksome tone.

None of your business is what I want to say but I just smile sweetly. "So glad you and Wendy are safe."

Her eyes widen. "Um. Thank you. Wendy, go find your friends. I'll be along in a minute."

The girl bites her lip and looks like she's about to argue. Marla puts a stop to it with a maternal hairy eyeball; the same thing I give the boys.

"Where's Jim; er, Logan?" she asks in a harsh whisper.

Charles hasn't included her in the communications loop. Good. "With everybody else," I answer wondering if she's so dense she didn't notice the Blackbird launch.

"When will he be back?"

Oh for kitten's sake, how do I know? "Um, hang on. I'll call the psychic network." Oooh! What a hateful look. "Marla, I'm not sure what your game is but….."

"I can assure you it's no game."

"Really? From my perspective it sure seems like it and now that somebody else has the winning hand you're looking to use Logan as your ace."

"What would you know about it?"

Duh! I'm married to the guy. "I know things don't quite add up."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means if you really want Logan's help you'd better be up front with him."

"Of course."

She's a lying bitch and if I don't get away from her I'm going to do something I'll regret. "Of course," I parrot before unlocking the door. It's difficult but I don't slam it in her face.

I'm shaking and want to scream how much I hate her. Just stop it Susan. She's not going to steal him away. You're letting your own past rule your emotions. Take a deep breath. Do the right thing. Put yourself in her shoes. What would you do if your child were in danger? Anything and everything.

Sinking down on the edge of the bed, this pep talk to myself isn't helping. I need to look at the situation professionally. Neutrality's key but for heaven's sake how can I be neutral when it comes to my husband? Forget it. I can't. Just like I'm having a tough time beating back a nagging sense of fear. The other night, talking to Charles, the look in his eye, the tone of his voice, scared me and that damned cavalier, I'm in total control attitude he cops for my benefit just aggravates the tar out of me.

How much longer will that part of his past keeping ripping up his life? God forgive me, but I wish he'd tell Marla Jennings and her daughter to take a hike. Be rid of Weapon X, Replications or whatever they're called once and for all.

Beeep. Beeep. It's the telephone beside the bed. "Doctor Harris here."

"Doctor Sue, it's Kitty. There's a phone call for you."

"Did they say who it is?"

"She's kinda hard to understand but I think she said Elizabeth Howlett."

Oh no! Now what? "Thanks, Kitty. Put it through, please." I knew I should've called her when we first got home. "This is Sue," I say with false cheer.

"Oh Susan, dear! Is James there?" No formal pleasantries? She sounds really strange.

"He's still out. What's wrong?"

Her voice breaks as she rattles on in French, "Il est terrible! C'est Robert. Classer vos papiers. Il était dans l'accident de voiture…."

"Elizabeth….Elizabeth," I break in. "Slow down. I don't understand. What's happened?"

"Robert a été tué!"

"What? What does that mean?"

"Robert est mort!" she cries.

Oh my God! I understand that. "How? What happened?" My flood gates are dangerously close to bursting.

She can't get herself together well enough to speak English but I don't think it matters. I get the gist. I end the call with a tissue wadded in my face and promise that Logan will call the minute he returns.

This is so unfair! A tragedy. Robert's a fine—was a fine gentleman. And no offense to Logan, but he was the only one in that household who seemed to have his head screwed on straight.

Honk! I blow a hole in the tissue.

Enough already! It's been weeks of all sorts of crap. What else could possibly happen? "Oh shut up, stupid," I say out loud and wrap my knuckles on the wooden bed platform to ward off the jinx.

I feel the twins jump and kick. Rubbing my belly I coo to them, "Some crazy world out here little ones. Sure wish…" The flood gates burst and tears drizzle down my cheeks. "…your daddy was here right now."

It's not the reassuring feel I get with my arms around my husband but it's the next best thing. Clutching the pillow smelling faintly of him to my breast, I curl up on my side and succumb to a private little pity party.

XXXXX

"Come," orders a cold, impatient voice from beyond the hotel room door. "You were supposed to be here days ago," Stanislaw Ruchinsky criticized a waif of a young man easing himself into a red velvet, luxuriously upholstered chair.

"Nice to see you too, Stan and thanks for the drink."

Sneering, Ruchinsky tosses a brochure and several photos and commands, "Look this over."

"Aye." The younger man thumbs through the material weighing it with a critical squint. Gesticulating, he protests, "This is a brochure for a boarding school!"

"Yes, a very special school."

"You're joking mate. It's a bloody _school. _ A bit beneath my skill set, I'd say."

"Don't be overconfident. It's a school for mutants and its headmaster is an Omega level telepath."

He scoffs, "Right," and flashing the photos asks, "Who's the bints?"

"The girl is the primary focus. The dark haired woman is her mother." Ruchinsky casts a disapproving scowl at the scrawny, epicene mutant, "By the way, touch the girl and it'll be your last."

"Pick your jock strap out of your crack, I don't shag girls," he responded bluntly. "And the blond?"

"Someone who may be a hindrance to our plans. It was she who foiled the first attempt obtaining the girl."

"Worth a mint to somebody, I take it."

"Enough to justify your exorbitant fee," Ruchinsky spat in frustration.

He flashed a cheeky smile before his face grew somber, "What you want me to do?"

"Get inside. Get close to whomever you must. I want to know who's who; their powers, schedules, weakness in security; everything."

"This is all the preliminary data you've got?"

Thrusting a thin envelope, "This is all you need to know for the moment," Ruchinsky declares.

Suddenly uneasy, the pixie-like man's face creases, "Meaning you're not the paymaster and don't know piss more'n you're telling me."

Ruchinsky smiles benignly as one might to a meddlesome child.

Eyes flashing imperiously, "It'll take a bit of time," the man cautions.

"Take all the time you need….within reason." Ruchinsky's expression sharpens, "Fail and you'll wish I was your paymaster."

XXXXX

Compared to what we're hearing from the other teams, New York City seems left out of the plot. Fucking figures. I could be home relaxing by a crackling fire, savoring a couple brews and making love to a beautiful woman. But nooo! I'm freezing my balls off for what?

Word from LA is Avengers West got pelted with garbage and shot at. Minor surprise; yahoos from Cali are fuckin' nuts anyway. Chicago turned out a bum weather bust. Lake effect snowstorm all but shut down the city. Must have been a bitch cuz it takes a lot to bring Chicago to a halt.

Most exciting thing for us has been talking the junior Justice Leaguers through disarming a couple potent incendiaries at UN headquarters. Gotta love the UN. So busy with their noses in everybody else's shit they choke on their own.

Blue, Elf, Colossus, Rogue and Frosty Fingers joined up once we got earthbound. Forming threesomes we had ample time to cover decent territory and handle half dozen mixed high and low ED's in Central Park. Expected, security's tight in Times Square for any kind of funny business. Same with the subway. Local cops took care of something that turned out to be nothing at the Waldorf Astoria.

There seems t'be a pattern; local authorities got a handle on the cushy, easy—warm targets while we're chilling in the true sense of the word and sucking down tepid coffee and greasy hot dogs outside in the city's armpits.

"X-Team, this is Castle," we pick up through our Bluetooth

Cyke replies, "Whatcha got, Frank?"

"Word on the street's that GW, Brooklyn and Verrazano bridges're rigged."

Another voice joins, "This is Cage. I'm at the Holland Tunnel. It's rigged with enough explosives to make Oklahoma City look like fireworks."

Cyke looks nauseated and mutters, "Damn!"

"Luke, what kind of shit we lookin' at?" is my question.

"Semtex. Packed into traffic control boxes the length of the tunnel."

Castle confirms, "Same at the Verrazano Bridge. The stuff's packed into electrical transformers. Ain't right up on one yet so I can't tell ya the triggering mechanism yet."

"Ok. We're on it. Go to command frequency," Cyke replies then switches radio frequency. "Port Authority Command, this is X Team leader one."

"Roger Team Lead One. We've been monitoring. The order's gone out to shut down bridges and tunnels and clear marine traffic. Back up teams are en route. We need a primary at the Brooklyn Bridge and Lincoln Tunnel"

"Affirmative, "Cyke answers before confirming, "Cage? You have back up?"

"Roger that. ETA six minutes."

"Castle, status?"

"Cavalry's here. We're good."

"Ok people," Cyke declares. "Let's split up. Logan, Storm, Vic, Colossus, take the Brooklyn Bridge. Beast, Nightcrawler, Iceman, Rogue, you're with me. We're taking the Lincoln Tunnel."

XXXXX 

To save time we cut through a couple blocks of dilapidated, no mans land locally known as District X. Local cops won't get near it; city government ignores it; real fun place to be. Even Charles is hesitant to send us in there to rescue kids caught up in it because most of 'em are beyond help. That's a helluva admission for him to make.

"Yo! Suckah. Dis ain't Holloween," says a gold chain festooned Mutant punk. A fugly bunch of tattooed and pierced gang bangers forms up as his back up band.

Can't say I didn't expect something like this. "It's whatever fuckin' holiday I want it t'be, bub."

Storm's flown on ahead but Vic and Pete, smart enough to meet force with force, form up on my left and right. "I knew things were going way too smooth," Vic hisses.

"Mmm, hmmm," I answer out the side of my mouth. "Boring, if ya ask me."

Pete adds, "Boring is good, da?"

Nyet. Ya a wuss're somethin'? Didn't say it but I shot him a sideways glance that said it and then some.

Goldielocks and company form up the same set to block our way. Thrusting his hands into my chest, "Where do ya th'o't you goin', Wolfman?"

He's just made his second mistake of the night; Number one was stopping us in the first place. "If ya wanna keep those hands attached to yer body, back off now asshole."

He's an idiot! "What….ya…..gon…na…do..?" he pounds each syllable into my chest with his fist.

Whoa! Do not touch the goods. Much as I'd love to teach a sorely needed lesson, we ain't got time to fuck around with these pussies. Seizing his offending hand, I play nice one last time and don't quite crush it to useless bone chips and pulp,

Goldielocks yelps in pain and jerks back a pace.

Growling, "Ain't gonna do nothin'," I lay down the law. "Ya don't realize it but I just did ya a favor. Now, you an' yer girlie bitches're gonna jet away an' play with somebody else."

"Fuck yo white ass," Goldie yowls and makes to get back in my face.

"Better men have tried ya little shit packer."

The rest of the welcome committee postures for a rumble. Raw aggression and blatant stupidity stink worse than rotting garbage in a nearby dumpster. I hear the distinct click of switchblades at the ready.

Pete morphs to metal and Vic, with no real defensive or offensive mutation, pulls his sidearm. But with about a dozen of them to us three, they ain't too impressed.

Ok, so it's time to make an impression. SNICKT! Faster than he can blink, I poke a set of convincers at Goldie's belly and form a triangle at his adams apple. "Like I said, I think ya wanna find somebody else t'play with, eh?"

The complexion of the punk I'm about to shish kebab's gone from ebony to milk chocolate.

A green skinned dude with purple dreadlocks spouts warning, "You messing wiff da Wolverine, otay buh-weet!"

Now they're impressed and prove it by backing up like a pack just swatted down by the alpha dog. Sometimes a nasty rep's worth the effort.

They part ranks and we pass down the center. Ain't smelling as much aggression and couple of 'em seem t'be clenching their butts real tight.

In every pack there's always upstarts and this ain't an exception. An Asian looking dude steps forward flanked by two others. "Don't give a fuck who you are," he snarls and turns into a human porcupine.

Ok, we got tactical error number three. Posturing your best powers straight off the bat gives your opponent the edge. Not that we need it for this bunch o' kindergartener's.

Porcupine might be a force to reckon with though 'cuz I smell a potent neurotoxin in those quills. If it's one I ain't been exposed to that could put me in a serious world of misery.

The bitch on his right's a gargantuan double-bagger. Christ! Looking at her for too long is weapon enough but of course, there's more and she transforms into a walking, talking ball of fire.

Dumbshit on Porky's left is more lizard than human. He's flicking a wicked serpentine tail with clusters of jagged spikes and flexing a respectable set of claws from of his hands and feet, if ya can call 'em that. No poison in 'em, far as I can tell, but with breath that'll stall a Mack truck, there's probably is in those rows of pointy teeth he's showing off.

Guess the fat lady's about to sing. Larry, Moe and Curly Sue rush forward.

Smack! Crack! Pete, in full metal jacket, rearranges Porky face with a fist. Nose pancaked, he goes down yowling, spitting blood and teeth.

Fireball meets cold water, as Vic does his thing, turning into a human fire hose. Sssssss! The queen of fugly makes like the Wicked Witch of the West, doused to a greasy looking, steaming puddle.

Aw fer cryin' out loud! Lizard breath's beyond predictable. Spinning, he whips his tail to take off my head. Ducking easily I jeer, "Gotta do better'n 'at, bub."

He sticks out a pointy black tongue and hisses before barreling toward me again.

I dodge the Lizard. In my peripheral I see the steaming puddle transform back into her solid bulkiness. I'd be laughing at her trying to stuff the lard back into her overstretched leathers except Lizard breath snags me by the throat.

With a tongue the dearly departed Toad would've envied, Lizard's wrapS me around the neck and yanks me kissin' close. Gag me with a spoon! Reeking of rotten eggs, potent, silent but deadly farts and sour beer vomit, the fuckin' turd pond over on the Jersey side of the river's got nothin' on this guy's halitosis.

Can't suck in a breath. My larynx ain't adamantium and spasms from the pressure. Spots skitter across my retinas and my eyes feel like they're gonna pop. If the heat I'm feeling is any indicator, my face is probably the color of pickled beets.

A little help from my mates would be handy but they're a bit tied up with a second round from Porky and the Hot Pants

Lizard's eyeing my neck like he looking for a good place to land a hickey. What is he? Some kind of Vamp-reptile cross breed?

Enough of this shit already! Putrid air in my face'r not, I do like breathing.

Dragon breath's got his claws sunk into my biceps. Must have hit a nerve or something 'cuz I ain't feeling a thing. This is a temporary bad. My brain's telling my arms, C'mon. Move. Tie his fuckin' tongue in a knot. Rearrange his orthodontics. My arms ain't getting the message. More bad; probably severed tendons.

Healing factor starts its mojo and I bend my elbow and with a flick sever the s.o.b.'s tongue.

Blood spurts.

He screams and lets go.

Stumbling back, eyes dilated wide in shock, he clamps his hands to his mouth. Howling and bleeding like a stuck pig, he starts puking.

Life's a bitch and then ya die, bub.

Speaking of dyin'; the pressure on my throat ain't easing up. Hello! I need some air here. Edges of my vision are going gray and I'm feelin' spacey. Contrary to popular legend, I can suffocate. Not permanently so far, but tonight's not the night to put it to the test.

What's he secrete from his tongue? Crazy Glue? Gotta get it off. Muscles in the arms are healing but fine motor skills are takin' their sweet time.

Spacey's begets dizzy and I'm seeing the world through a black tunnel.

Shit! Don't lose the bubble now, Wolverine. Ya got an audience set to pounce the second they sense weakness.

Slipping a claw between me and the flesh noose, I lance it.

Can't control the gasp and it takes a lot to keep from stumbling.

For a second the gangers act like they'll seize the moment. A death scowl, two sets of bloody claws and Vic and Pete forming up with me puts the kibosh on it.

"Anybody else wants uh new face?" I growl in their jive. "Slap mah fro!"

Fear and panic's the eau de toilet of the moment; theirs. "No way. We don' wants no mo' static," declares the dude who earlier couldn't keep his hands off me.

"Everything'stigh," pleads purple dreadlocks.

"You da man," expounds more than one.

"We be so gone."

And they are; disappearing into the shadows leaving their wounded to fend for themselves. Whadaya expect from fuckin' low life scumbags!

XXXXX

"Oh no, you've got to put jalapeno's in black eye peas." Electra defends her version of the southern New Years Day tradition.

"We're in agreement, girlfriend," I say while matching a double twelve to the domino train "but I'm not even sure I can get that Cannuckle head of mine to eat the plain version."

"Carrumba!" Electra exclaims. "I was just about to dump points."

Sticking my tongue out, "It's probably a moot point, though."

"¿Por qué?

We interrupt our regular programming for breaking news coverage, cuts into Dick Clark's Rocking New Years Eve on television.

"No way! This sucks! How dare they cut off Justin Timberlake!" rings from indignant adolescents.

"Not a moment too soon," Charles mutters. Anyone over thirty five, which is the four of us lounging around the card table, snickers and nods consensus.

Over the kids protest, I reply to Electra's question, "No doubt Logan'll be jetting back for Robert's funeral."

"I'm out," Charles tosses his last domino down. After our groans of defeat die away he winks at me and adds, "By the way, feel free to use my plane."

"This is Celina Cho, reporting from Park Row and the Centre Street merge at the Brooklyn Bridge. The New York City Port Authority has closed all suspension bridges and tunnels from the George Washington to the Verazzano Bridge due to an apparent bomb threat."

"Did she just say bomb threat?" For the adults, any interest in a rematch abruptly evaporates.

"Kevin," Charles says quietly, "increase the volume, please." The volume goes up several notches as the boy blinks his eyes.

"We're told the Port Authority bomb squads, assisted by New York's own X-Men are on site assessing the situation. The same can be said for other sights up and down the Hudson River….."

Marla gasps, "Good heavens!"

"Since when are we New York's own?" Electra huffs.

"Since our guys are putting their fannies on the line, I guess," is my opinion.

In my mind I hear, "Ix-nay on the Team references, ladies." It's Charles and from Electra's pinched expression, we both said a little too much around Marla Jennings.

The television switches locations where another self-important talking head jabbers nothing particularly useful. "This is Paul Stacey, on site at the Lincoln Tunnel where the Port Authority and the X-Men…."

The camera pans, capturing several large figures suited in protective gear entering the tunnel on foot. One of them has a blue forked tail twitching from beneath his gear.

"There's Mister Wagner," one of the kids points out.

"Bet the big one's Doctor McCoy," says another.

Glancing at Wendy, her eyes are chocolate saucers. Lines of intense concentration deepen on Marla's brow and under her eyes.

Hate to tell ya Charles but the barn door's wide open and the horse just left.

Oops! Charles heard me. "Indeed," he says aloud, his face pinched in a frown. "Doctor Jennings, Wendy; might I have a word; privately?"

"Ssshhh!" demands Electra. She's taken station close to the screen, trying to determine Vic's whereabouts, no doubt.

I must admit, I'm leaning in close myself. None of the images seem to be Logan yet. With those long legs and prideful strut, he's hard to miss. The hair? Not going there.

On television we hear, "….plastic explosive, known as Semtex, are planted in traffic control boxes. Monitoring Port Authority radio frequency we've learned these devices are timed to detonate at approximately one a.m."

Scores of eyes seek the time as the TV cuts to a commercial. An activity noticeably absent is kids dashing for refills on soda and munchies.

"This is Celina Cho aboard a Port Authority patrol boat," blasts from the speakers, muddled by a diesel marine engine. "We're moored just off the Brooklyn Bridge. To recap; all bridges and tunnels along the Hudson River from the George Washington span to Verazzano Narrows have been closed to traffic due to a bomb threat from an, as yet, unknown source."

On screen is a view of the bridge. Traffic seems to be crawling away from the Manhattan exit. Jumping to a scene on the other shore's entrance, scores of honking traffic's champing at barricades as it's diverted back to the New Jersey suburbs.

"Bomb disposal units from the Port Authority, city police and the X-Men have been dispatched. From my vantage point just off Manhattan's shore …." The camera zooms in on a figure suspended in the air. " …I can see what appears to be a female suspended beneath the span."

"Hey, that's Ms. Munro."

"Duh!" replies Jubilation Lee.

"Suspended? Right. She flies ya dumb dork," says Kevin to the TV.

The picture jumps, blurred from the motion of the boat, then pans to the water. "There's a man in the water scouting the bridge supports along and beneath the waterline."

Electra gasps, exclaiming in Spanglish, "Mi dios¡Él está loco en la cabeza! Ay, yi, yi! Pero he's gotta do it."

The news anchorman breaks in, "Celina, from what I can see, the man in the water seems to be wearing only a wet suit…"

"Correct Paul. Apparently it's another X-Man. After the next break we hope to have more information on them and just what their capabilities are."

"Extraordinary! I know it's cold. Exactly what are the conditions at the moment?"

Oh, shut the frick up, will ya! I scream inside my head. It's New York. It's winter. Of course it's cold. Ball shriveling, butt numbing cold as my significant other is so fond of saying.

The on site reporter continues, "I can see another X-Man from the uniform, climbing a pylon."

The picture zooms in on the climber. Holy guacamole! That's my husband. And is he wearing any safety gear? Of course not. He's Mister Indestructible—or so he thinks.

Oh peachy perfect! Wendy returns just as Jubilee and Kitty screech, "That's Logan."

Marla's not with her, so it's not all bad, I suppose.

The TV alternates views of the bridge and close ups of the Team. Honestly if it weren't people I love and care about deeply, I'd switch off the channel. Not because it's not important but I hate how the media sensationalizes and speculates where they've got no call to do so.

Celina, the reporter fills audio time with, "….there's not much background available on the X-Men, but they are hailed for averting a disaster of international scope over a year ago foiling Magneto and his mutant converter machine…."

"Hell yeah," Jubilee shouts. "That mother fu— Ow!" Glancing shamefaced at Charles her tone moderates, "That creep almost killed my best friend. But Logan took him down."

Solidarity rings true with the kids and who they hero-worship. Jubes' prompting brings forth an emotional outpouring of hair raising yarns and how who saved who. I don't know whether Logan being on the top of the list is good or not.

Listening, observing and no doubt feeling the strong emotions, Wendy tries to look interested in what the kids say. At the same time she's got her arms crossed over her chest, very much like a certain relative of hers, and she's gouging herself with her fingernails.

Before anybody can change the subject or react, one of the kids rescued last Labor Day from New Orleans describes in full color detail his harrowing rescue and how more than one of his friends didn't make it. Now I know why Logan never told me the details and why it got to him so much at the time.

Suddenly Wendy cries out and covers her head with bloodied arms. "Please stop talking." A row of books fall of the shelf surrounding the TV, "I can't stand feeling your pain!"

The room goes dead silent and the kids stare like she's losing her marbles. "You guys better hush up," Kitty warns having witnessed one of Wendy's meltdowns.

Charles, Electra and I move in, surrounding her. In my head I hear Charles caution, 'considering the circumstances and your condition, it's seems prudent Electra and I handle this.'

For a second I didn't get his points, then duh! The kid is known to pack a powerful telekinetic punch. Not a good thing for me entering my final trimester. Circumstances? Is he asserting I might be less than professional where Wendy's concerned? Well, not unprofessional but it's too easy to let emotions cloud judgment; especially when behavioral, mental health issues are involved. Any professional with a lick of ethics knows the rule and just how far to bend it. Allen and I, when it came to the boys having issues or our messy divorce, referred them out to a trusted colleague and that's why when I got involved with Logan I backed off from being his personal physician.

Not sure exactly what he did but Electra shrugs, "Si. Call me if you need me," and Wendy calms obediently following him out of the media room.

¿Qué da? I whisper to my friend. She shakes her head and sits next to me on the couch. The reality of the situation's sinking in. Did the reporter not say the bombs were timed for one a.m.? What the hell does that mean? That's only ten minutes from now. Dear Lord! Our husbands are out there trying to….

I feel light headed and nauseated. I think Electra senses it because she grasps my hand. There are tears in her eyes. She murmurs, "Vic y yo va a tener un bebe'.

For a moment my brain doesn't process in Spanish. Then it hits me. "Does he know?"

"No. I just found out today."

Wrapping my arms around her as a sister would, our shared joy is quashed by fears that neither of us can bear to openly express.

XXXXX

Taking flight from her last position, Storm shouts, "Last one," before hovering next to me. "You're sweating," she comments.

"No shit," I grunt. It's about twenty degrees and the wind chill's worse. What's got me all hot and bothered is this firecracker I'm trying t'diffuse. I thought I'd seen it all when it comes t'these things. Guess I've been outta the loop cuz this fucker's like nothing I've come across. Combine that with talking Pete through; yeah, I'm sweatin'.

"Need help?" Storm offers.

"Nah. I'm good. Tell ya one thing, Ro; wanna get my hands on the mother that built these buggers."

"I know. Every one I took apart had something different going on."

Pete's voice filters thru my comm., "I have a problem."

Take a number, bub. "What?"

"The wires are not the right color."

"Say again."

"Da. Instead of red and green, I have got yellow and blue."

Jesus Christ! It's either a dummy, booby trapped or both. The kid might be able to morph into metal but he ain't trained in anything but the basics and I ain't havin' that kind of fuck up on my conscience. "Pete, stop what yer doin'. Repeat. Stop."

"Da," crackles in my ear piece.

"That your last one, kid?"

"Nyet. One more I think."

"Ok. Git on it and I'll take the last one."

Glancing across frigid, starlit darkness, I can just pick Pete out scrambling over the crown of the center pylon. He's gotta lean into the stiff breeze for balance.

And lemme state right here the breeze is cold; bone numbing cold. More 'n once I've had t'stop and warm my hands up. I'm thinking domestic life's making me soft 'r something. Aw, quit bitchin' and get 'er done, Wolverine.

"Storm, almost got this one. Ya think I could get a li'l air shuttle across to Pete?"

"Will you be flying first class today, sir?" she teases, her cocoa eyes glittering.

"Yeah and looking to renew my membership in the Mile Hi—" The little scene at the Christmas party under the mistletoe comes to mind. "Never mind."

Well, screw this! Pete wasn't kidding'. This fucker's damn near impossible to unscramble. On purpose for sure. Daisy chained with three others, if it blows the whole bridge is going down. Even if the other two 'r disabled, no way t'be sure there ain't a backup detonator. Odds are, count on it. And the squirrelly wiring's deliberate, too. Are we havin' fun yet?

"Eeny meeny miney mo," I say to Storm with a weary shrug of my shoulders.

"That's comforting."

"Glad ya think so. Lemme tell ya, darlin', between you, me and the fish below, I got no fuckin' clue how this thing's put together."

Leaning into the harness tethering me to the bridge, I scrub my face and crack my neck. I'm cold. I'm hungry. I'm frustrated. The bottom line is I don't think I can safely take this thing apart. Just wait 'til I run across Dugan or Fury….

There's a shit load of Semtex packed into this power box and I ain't gambling if it's enough t'trash the bridge 'r not. Guess it's improvisation time.

"Storm, go back to the patrol boat and get me one o'those containment units." Checking my watch, I'm compelled to ad, "And make it quick, darlin'."

She is, thank my lucky stars. "What's the plan, Logan?"

"Gonna cut the whole damn box away, put it in here and deep six it in the channel."

"Shouldn't we take it to the disposal truck on shore?"

"Fuck that! Too risky. If the powers that be want it I'll make sure I note the spot it sinks."

"Let me hold the container while you cut it loose."

"Negative. I want you and Petey clear. Don't know what's going to happen."

"Are you out of your mind? How are you going to manage such a feat? That thing's heavy."

"Don't sweat it." Pointing to the road deck below, "Set it there and fly your sweet buns outta here. Oh, and tell Vic to give this pylon a wide berth."

"Logan!"

"That's an order." Barking into my comm, "You copy that Colossus?"

"Da but nyet Wolverine. I'm turning to metal and staying here. Separate it and drop it to me."

"Don't think so." If something can go wrong, it will; that's my philosophy and I'm stickin' to it. Dropping a Semtex stuffed box is askin' for it and I'd like to be around to explain it when this is all over.

The kid's not completely out to lunch, though. My harness has clips strong enough to support another adult and there's a secondary harness. It's gonna be awkward 'cuz the bugger's about the size of two p.c.'s and just as heavy, but bracing myself against the iron foot holds and then lowering it seems like the way to go.

Goddammit! A small water craft snags my focus. "Port Authority vessel, this is X-Team Lead Two, you copy?"

"Roger team leader two."

"Clear that patrol boat."

Idiot Port Authority's got a news crew on board. Cameras and shit! A hundred bucks says Susie's got a front row seat watching along with ever'body else on campus.

Using a single claw on my dominant hand I slice through the top set of bolts holding the power box to the pylon. Separated enough, I can see between the box and bridge and there are no surprises.

Ok, time to unplug. I know the power's been shut off but there's something about sticking metal into an electrical socket that cinches my pucker string.

Done! The cable dangles like a dead black snake and I gotta remind myself it's okay to breathe.

Bzzzzzt!

Kee-rist!

I think my underwear needs changin'. It's just my watch; pre-set for a two minute countdown.

Paranoia and complacency are playing tug o'war with my senses. A feeling that this is too easy needles my spine. An understanding of all the ways a bomb goes ka-blooey twists my gut in knots.

Don't think, bub. Ninety seconds. Stay with the plan.

Chunk! Chunk! The last two bolts are ice cream to my claws.

"Status Logan?" bleeds through my comm.

"Almost there," I grunt trying to balance myself while fastening the auxiliary harness around the power box.

"On my way back to your location," Storm warns.

"Negative."

"No can do. Port Authority's denying permission to toss it in the drink."

Fuck it to hell! Ain't got time to debate this now and I flick my comm. off.

Storm gets within shouting distance and hovers. "Quit with the Lone Ranger gig, Logan"

"The day one of you manifests a healin' factor'll be the day I quit being a lone ranger."

"I'll stay here 'til you get it secured then deliver it to the P.A."

I just shake my head. We'll see about that. I'm here and they ain't and once this thing's contained Petey can fast ball it before those idiots get a clue.

Lowering it gentle as one of Sue's Swarovski crystal knick knacks, a breeze catches it. Reflexively, I blink as it bumps and bounces off the pylon. "How 'bout a little wind control, darlin'." Storm's already white-eyed.

A bubble of calm settles and I start feeding rope again. My watch buzzes telling me I got one minute before I turn into a pumpkin.

Nut job press corps on the patrol boat are still too damn close. Probably got a hard on thinkin' about broadcasting a mutant blowin' himself to kingdom come. Bastards! If this thing does go south I really don't want Susie seein' it.

Bridge stats say it's a little less than a hundred sixty feet between me and the roadway. I estimate I'm halfway there. Better up the pace cuz if there's a secondary timer on battery the bridge is gonna have a big hole where the road oughtta be and Petey's going for a Polar Bear swim.

The sound of a double click sets off alarm bells inside my cranium. They came from below but lapping water and the creaks and groans the bridge makes it so I can't get a true fix on the source.

Just keep feeding the rope.

Something—a sensation, makes my back molars ache. A sound--at the edge of auditory range, spikes my ear drums.

Realization looses a cascade of adrenalin forcing thought, reaction and instinct into over drive.

Ah shit! "Get back!" I roar.

Space constricts and time seems motionless while my brain processes dire sensory input.

Think fast.

Options?

Too few.

Consequences?

Ugly.

Act—

It's an effort of futility but it's the only option. Severing the rope from my waist I compress myself against the pylon.

"Susie, I'm sorry."

Around me, the world erupts into a searing plasma hurricane.

Fried.

Falling.

Fu---!

XXX 

…to be continued.

Reader's, this chapter took far longer that I anticipated and I'm here to promise the next is going to take _longer_! I'm sorry about it but I've been promoted at my job and have taken on an in- depth medical coding certification class. I do promise to update but in the meantime have fun speculating. ---**_MLC_**


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Bam! The speakers jump.

What the heck!

A roller coaster image of bridge, East River and patrol boat projects from the TV before a blob of white out explodes across the TV screen.

No!

Scratchy, stilted, epithetical exclamations crackle from the speakers.

Please no! My mind won't process the sounds and images.

Disheveled and distraught, Celina Cho's image returns. "There's been an explosion! It appears to have been generated from…"

Oh God!

"We've lost sight of the three…."

There's a rushing in my ears drowning the cries and groans around me.

"Wait!" The camera pans to the water. "There's two of them. One seems to be supporting the other."

The camera zooms in. Bobbing in the frigid East River is Vic.

Electra sucks in her breath. The grip she has on my hand tightens.

Perfectly buoyant, Vic's a human flotation device and he's got an arm clinch on some one massive as he.

My vision contracts to a pin hole. A suffocating sensation squeezes my throat and the floor falls away.

**xXx **

Pitch black.

No pain.

No sensation of any kind.

No.

I'm moving.

Floating.

Feels free.

Silence is numbing as the cold.

So this is death?

I was expecting fire 'n brimstone. Hell must o'froze over hearing I'm coming to town.

**xXx **

"Susan…. " The voice seems distant. "Susan." I feel something cool on my forehead. Light and color bleed back into my senses. So does realization. Struggling to sit upright I wail, "Logan!"

"No. No. Be still," Electra gently restrains me.

"He dead. I know he's dead. Nobody can survive…"

"Hush! Don't you dare..."

The television volume's been silenced but not closed captioning. The female member of the X-Men has been picked up by a Coast Guard patrol scrolls along as the picture shows a long distance shot of the patrol boat. Her condition is unknown at present.

The camera pans to another boat, obviously closer to the news crew by the picture clarity. It looks like a Coast Guard Rescue crew is dropping a body basket into the water. The scroll reads: One of the X-Men appears to be in very grave condition. Monitoring radio communications it appears a Medi-Vac chopper is waiting on shore…

Hysteria overcomes reason. I curl into a ball. Rocking back and forth my misery is actual physical pain.

"Miha, keep the faith. Charles is on Cerebro right now."

**xXx **

We're on the boat. The Coast Guard crew's speeding us to shore. They've put bandages on the few cuts I got from falling bridge chunks. Don't even think they'll rate a stitch but I'm sure Mamasita'll have something to say about it.

Logan's wrapped in a thermal blanket and they've got a medic holding a breathing mask to his face. Mi major amigo opens his eyes—eye. The back and left side of his body is nothing less than scorched, mangled shreds of flesh and muscle. Eye, ear, chunks of flesh, hair; nada, blown away! Makes me want to hurl. At least they had sense enough to cover it.

Glassy eyed with pain, he pleads, "Ro? Pete?" His voice, muffled by the mask, is frail, wheezy.

"Ok," I tell him, reinforced with a thumbs- up in his line of limited vision—I hope. I know she's alive but nothing more. Pete? Not sure. I only know he didn't get blown off the bridge.

He makes a noise in his throat, a bubbling groan. His body twitches and quakes. A sudden violent spasm of coughing fills the mask with blood and vomit.

"On his side…On his side." In one swift move, the medic reacts to prevent Logan from choking.

There's a gurgle and his chest stops moving.

The medic places a finger on the side of his neck. "C.A!" he shouts reaching for the portable defibrillator.

"No!" I warn. I'm not the doctor but I remember the near fiasco when he contracted the Mutant Flu.

They aren't listening and pull the thermal covering away from Logan's body.

"Bura! You remember the metal you saw in his legs and arm?"

The medic shoots a quizzical glance at me.

"It's not just there. It's his entire body."

"Well what the hell do I do?"

I don't waste time telling and slam my fist into Logan's armored sternum with everything in me. Mierda! That hurts. Shaking out screaming knuckles; now I'm going to need medical attention.

The medic pumps the bag respirator and searches for a pulse. "Got it," he declares then adds, "Weak and thready."

Good thing we're almost to the dock. There's a chopper ready for take off but even better Hank and the rest of the Team's standing by. To make it sweeter, I spot the Blackbird, lights ablaze and heat radiating from her tail in a clearing behind them.

**xXx**

"Susan!"

Charles is positioned directly in front of me. "Doctor Harris!" I hear him from without and within. He's alive. "Do you understand? Logan; all of them, are alive."

Raising my puffy, tear blotched face, what he says registers with agonizing slowness. "He—is?"

"Yes. But Ororo and Peter have been injured as well.…"

"Oh God!" I can't shop shaking. Why am I so overcome? This isn't like me. I've been trained for this. I've served in field and sea-going units in the Middle East. Stupid of me, I just never allowed myself to contemplate a horror like this in my own back yard.

"I need you Doctor Harris." Warm fingertips brush a lock of my hair out of my eyes and linger on my forehead.

A sense of calm takes hold. "Yes, I'll try." Slowly the mist of dread and despair shrouding my brain ebbs. "What did you just do?"

He smiles kindly and gently squeezes my hand. "Shall we proceed?"

"Let's get below," I sigh. "And prepare the trauma rooms." Activity is the prescription even if it seems I'm on autopilot and slogging through wet cement.

Electra's fairly territorial when it comes to 'her' trauma unit or at least setting up. Per strict protocol, it is a nurse job but we're so small that overlap is par for the course. Even so it's not second nature for me; set up that is and I'm glad to busy my mind with the task and grateful she's easy to work beside.

"This really sucks," I mutter interpreting vital statistics streaming on the Med-Net. Hypotensive, tachy heartrate, crap pulse ox numbers…

Electra peeks over my shoulder at the computer monitor. "¿Qué?" A light squeeze on my shoulder says she's with the program.

"Black Bird to base," Scott's voice broadcasts loud and clear.

Peeling myself off the ceiling I reply, "Roger, Black Bird."

"ETA ten minutes."

"Copy that. Scott, ask Hank to reset Logan's monitor."

My colleague's voice replies, "Negative on the reset, Sue. The numbers are accurate."

My heart sinks. "Can you increase his o-two levels?"

"Pushing everything I can. All signs point to—"

"Blast lung," I beat Blue to the diagnosis. "How many apnea episodes?"

It's a long pause before I receive the reply I suspect but don't want to hear. "He's not breathing on his own."

"Damn and double damn," I mutter while my anxiety level notches up yet again. Come on Bright Eyes, where's that healing factor?

"What is Blast lung exactly?" Electra queries.

"The pressure wave from the explosion basically rips lung alveoli to shreds; disrupts gaseous exchange between the respiratory and circulatory systems."

"That's why it makes no difference what Hank's doing?"

"You got it and for Normals the mortality rate is outrageous."

Charles meets us at the hangar and the second those jet engines silence we're through the door. Scott and Kurt, hauling Logan on a stretcher, practically fly down the ramp while Hank's operating a respirator clamped to Logan's face and shouting orders.

I should be but I'm not prepared for this. I've seen healthier looking cadavers! I feel completely incompetent and paralyzed. Through a mental fog I hear Hank's voice, "Doctor Harris, I've got Logan. Take Ororo and Peter." It registers; barely and all I can do is nod dumbly.

The rest of the Team emerges. Ororo, supported by Vic is clearly dazed. "Come on, let's get you into a wheel chair." Sick to her stomach, a side effect of head trauma, she nods and eases herself into it. "Take her to two," I tell Vic.

Bobby and Marie are trying to help Pete but he's pulling a silly macho man imitation. Weaving down the ramp he gets halfway, lands hard on his derriere and promptly throws up. Another head trauma. "Wheel chair for you too," I command.

"What did you say?" he shouts.

Ruptured ear drums. No surprise. I just shake my head and mouth, 'don't worry about it.'

Pete turns his attention to Charles and says, "Da. Wheel chair is good."

Sure wish telepathy was transferable. "Exam three," I direct.

"I'll work Peter up if you prefer," Charles offers.

"Thinking_ he'd_ prefer it."

As we're about to separate into exam rooms the elevator door slides open. "Looks like I made it just in time."

"Cecelia! I don't know how you knew to get here but amen sister."

"Charles phoned me. Now, where do you want me?"

"Right here," Charles responds first. "I'm needed in there." He's pointing to Exam One and catches my anxious look. "Logan's being Logan. I'm going to try and calm him down."

I'm taking that as a positive sign but lack the fortitude to say it. "I'll join you when we're through here."

**xXx **

Can't see.

No sound.

What the fuck? Where the hell am I?

Get a grip. Use the senses ya got.

In through the nose. Suck in that good ol' h-two-oh. C'mon you can do it.

Negative.

Wanna howl.

Chokin' on something?

Swallow.

Can't. Tube's shoved down my gullet.

Panic!

Fight it. Pull it out.

Autonomic response to pain. Shhhnickt! Shhhnickt! Slide those mothers out.

Can sense frantic movement all around me. A voice in my head pleads, Logan, we're here to help. Retract your claws

_Who's we?_

Henry, Electra and I; Charles.

_No can do, cue ball._

You must.

He's right but survival instinct's got reason on the run.

_Need help…. Inhibitors. _

Yes, yes. Charles agrees. But you must first retract them.

_Ain't working._

Understood.

There's more movement around me.

Lava sluices through my veins.

Drugs!

No! Don't want this kind o'help. _Leave me alone. Lemme do it._

Not this time.

_Bull shit. _Been burned before; doused with napalm in 'Nam. Survived an up close and personal conversation with the business end of a flame thrower. So why's my healing factor giving me the royal fuck over now?

Have you ever been at ground zero of a bomb?

Head's getting fuzzy. Thoughts getting loose.

Ya da, ya, da…. Um? Good question. _Not in recent memory_, I reply in thought.

Feel weighted.

Feel buoyant.

Drug's working its voodoo!

Brain's gummed up with refrigerated molasses. I think, _why?_ in slow motion.

The explosion has overwhelmed your healing factor. It's taking time.

Bomb?

Explosion?

_Oh… Yeah. _

Fuck yeah! I'm still here.

I _am_ still here.

The scene reforms in my head. Doom adds to the pyre in my chest_. Ro? Pete?_

In Susan's care.

Right. My debt to Lady Luck's gonna take a millennium to pay down.

Warmth cocoons the pain.

_Charles?_

Yes.

_Need …..Susie._

Muscles uncoil.

Snickt. Snickt.

The world goes away.

**xXx **

Ororo and Pete are finally resting comfortably, miserable symptoms alleviated. Time is the cure for them now. It's going to be several days, at least, until we know if they'll fully recover. The rules are different when in comes to this sort of closed head trauma.

Cecelia and I are scrubbing out in preparation to join Hank and the others in Exam One. A God-awful howl in the next room turns my blood to ice water. Drying off and gloving, I race like a mad woman toward the uproar.

Dear God! My knees buckle at the sight of him lying spread eagle on his stomach, head turned to the left. From boot tops to waist his flesh is a blackened, oozing slab of meat. Silvery adamantium tibial and fibial bones peek between striated dermis. Strips of his uniform seem fused with crusting body fluid. From mid trunk to scalp partial thickness burns have created a canvas of scarlet, swollen blisters. A flap of charred flesh hangs limp where his ear should be. A rigid, convex plastic disk barely covers the gaping depression that was once his left eye. It certainly doesn't conceal angry, black bruising.

Hank, perspiring and aggrieved by his wretched task, looks up. Gesturing with bloodied scalpel in his hands, "You shouldn't be here."

Charles, stationed at Logan's head, responds in kind. The creases in his face seem deepened and his grey blue eyes are dull and aged.

They may be right but wild horses aren't going to keep me out. "I can handle it." Even if I only sit beside him.

Hank sighs and nods and then readies to separate another section of leather and synthetic uniform lining melted into Logan's flesh.

He's semi-conscious and the moment Hank slices his body goes taut, fingers claw and clutch the mattress. His agonized groan is nothing short of heart stopping.

The blood drains and pools in my feet. There's no way on Gods green earth I can just stand around and watch this. It's pass out, engage in the procedure or get away. Last thing anyone needs is another patient and I'm not going away. I shake my head and take a steadying breath. "What's his status?"

Electra, who's assisting Hank with debridement replies, "BP eighty over sixty. Pulse, one fifty and variable. Respiration sixty. Saturation, ninety and variable. LOC, eight on the GCS. Central and peripheral lines in place. Infusing Ringer's lactate, normal saline, glucose in water and colloids per Parkland Formula. Urinary output approximately point five milliliters per minute with moderate…"

"Hematuria," I finish clearly able to view the collection receptacle. "Do you need a break?"

"I'm ok," she replies and swabs fresh blood from where Hank has excised. The tears threatening to spill from her eyelids tell me she's fibbing.

I take a minute to study his scans. Despite the distortion caused by his skeleton, it's easy to see shadowing around internal organs. Fluid, most likely blood, around his kidneys and spleen. No surprise at the Butterfly pattern spread across lungs. If we could do an MRI, no doubt there's much more.

It's plain as rain Logan's healing factor's struggling but if it weren't for it…let's not go there. God, to do more for him. At least ease his pain. "Hank, this is insane! There must be something."

My good friend and colleague stares at me. It's abundantly clear he despises what he's being forced to do.

I hang my head, "Never mind." My voice cracks and my eyes water, "I know."

Years of training, time spent in near combat zones tells me we should be doing more. But we can't and Hank's as deeply aware as I.

It's such a cruel paradox. Logan's healing factor is a force that should only be chalked up to a divine miracle. And yet the same miraculous gift makes him immune to pain relieving drugs and treats most invasive interventions like the enemy. With the scope and severity of his condition, do any more and we'd simply be causing more harm than good.

**xXx **

Conscious but not.

Drifting.

Lungs on fire. Throat's feels like it's been sand papered. Chest's in a vice grip. Every breath's excruciating effort.

Explosion rattled my brain but good. Feels like my head's a watermelon rotting in the desert sun.

Ear drum's trying to mend. No real sound; just the frenetic pounding of my own heart. Maddening whine becomes eerie sibilance playing itself over and over. Pops and crackles ricochet inside my head.

Vision's almost non-existent; meteor showers on an obsidian sky. Somebody scraped my eyeballs with rusty fish hooks and tossed in ground glass for good measure.

Aware of the labors around me. Desperate though ultimately futile efforts to alleviate my suffering; control the uncontrollable.

Aware of the voice in my head. It's telling me Susie's here.

"No!"

Vocal cords ain't ready and I choke on my voice.

_Get her away. Don't want her to see me like this_.

The taste of salty copper clots in my throat; clogs my pipes.

Can't breathe!

Panic wraps it's tentacles around my mind.

React! Move.

Somebody?

Do something!

Somebody does; snakes a tube down my throat. Seconds later I'm hackin' and kackin' but the air's flowing.

Easy does it. I'm here Bright Eyes, registers in my mind; Charles relays the words I still can't hear.

Her scent's close and she's an exhausted, emotional wreck. _Love you darlin' _now get thehell away_. Don't say that Charles. _

Guess he didn't. Gentle fingers touch my head. You're gonna be fine. Love you too. Her thoughts soothe but touch is too much and I groan.

Olfactory sense kickin' in strong. Powerful emotions; anxiety, empathy, exhaustion; mix with clinical funk.

Antiseptic. Dry, filtered fake air. Salt water.

Sweat. Urine. Blood

Something else: Cloying, stick to yer throat, sickening sweet.

Goddamn! Goddamn that smell.

The stench wrenches free a vicious memory of flames and heat. Helpless cries from a tiny child. Crawling, dragging my crushed body through mud and brambles. Reach into the pit of hell for him—Tad, my baby son with Mariko. Gladly sear the flesh off my own arms to free him. And he dies—in my arms—burned to death.

Head spins, gut roils.

Goddamn my weakness.

Cold sweat

Gag.

Swallow.

Nope.

Can't control it. Like lye splashed onto an open wound, stomach acid sears my esophagus.

Gentle hands lift my head; repositioning a clean towel beneath my cheek.

Grateful for the clean up but it; nothing'll never sanitize the guilt that pollutes my soul from the knowledge that my firstborn's death was ultimately my fault.

Logan, Hank's gotta cut again.

"No." I rasp against the voice in my head. It's hers channeled through Charles.

"I'm so sorry," she thinks and speaks. I can sense the pain she feels for me.

"We don't have an option. Your healing factor is causing the flesh to over grow the debris burned into it."

She's barely hanging on and it scares the shit outta me. I want her strength; need it but not if there's risk to her or the twins.

Raising up on crisped, blistered forearms and craning my neck, "Hank, hold on…" Throats so dry the words seem to stick on my tongue. Retching and coughing saps my strength and I flop flat on my face.

Ok, Plan B. Breathe. Relax.

There ya go; a miniscule measure of control.

I reach with my relatively good right hand, "Darlin' ya gotta get away from here."

She laces her chilled fingers gently with mine, bends in close and answers, "That would be a not so much." Her voice sounds like somebody talking under water.

"Sue, please! I'll never…"

Breathless again, "…. For….give m'self …if…"

"If what? There's no debate, Logan. I'm not leaving your side 'til you're on the mend."

Ain't got any more juice to argue with her. "Just… do ….it," comes out as a defeated, breathless groan.

"Grrrraaarrgghh!" White hot steel dissects another strip of leather from the barbecued meat that was my thigh.

Curse my weakness; can't staunch the tears and I dissolve into pyroclastic clouds of vocal agony.

Again, Hank cuts and peels…irrigates…and cuts some more.

"Nuuhhhh—gaahhhd!"

Can't take it anymore. Pain's too much.

Receptors overloaded.

Fragging tenuous control.

Must…keep it together. Give in, loose the animal clawing to escape and people get hurt or die.

Pain's transient. Won't remember tomorrow.

Uh-huh.

Fuck that illusion! It's there twenty four seven in one form or another. Don't remember where I left my keys half the time but I always remember--feel pain.

Healing factor's in overdrive.

I'm thrown into a centrifuge. Vibrating from the inside out; freezing, roasting all at once.

Fever's climbing.

Brain's baking.

Senses go dull.

The few I got functional fade. Susie's scent. Charles' mind connection, even the white noise in my head becomes deafening silence.

Mind drifts

Time slows, bends, stands still

Formless sylphs undulate; cavorting obscenely before vanishing in tongues of flame

Demonic faces dart out the darkness forming a ring of hellfire around me. Taunting, their indecipherable voices mix, separate, roll around and bounce off my skull. Morphing into torsions of light they split, coalescing into amoebic monstrosities before exploding in pyrotechnic pus.

Rising from the conflagration with ulcerated, scabrous flesh, flame spewing from its blackened mouth, it's my own personal Deus Infernum.

Razor talons laced with sulfuric acid slash and rip the flesh from my bones. Gorging on the lifeblood spilling from my body, it howls with victorious delight.

Self control aborted, I scream. Spinning, tumbling, whipped to and fro; I'm slingshot through a black, silent void of nothingness.

**XXX**

Glossary of Medical Terms

_LOC_ Level of Consciousness

_GCS_ Glasgow Coma Scale

_Parkland Formula _ IV 'cocktail' based on varying lab values presented in the patient.

_Hematuria_ Blood in the urine.

_BP_ Blood pressure

_Saturation _ Amount of hemoglobin oxygen carrying cells in the blood.

_Apnea_ Temporary cessation of breathing.

**Author's Note:** How much worse can things get for our hero? You must continue following the story to discover the answer. Trust me, it's gonna be a roller coaster. So many back issues to deal with. So many new challenges for Logan and family.Yes the 'family' is about to make their debut . Bear with me and I doubt you'll be disappointed. Hey, all y'all do me a favor and review/comment. I know by the hit count somebody's checking me out. I'd like to know what you think be it positive or critical. I care deeply. I'd be remiss in not raising a glass to my best beta, RhiannonUK: Salut and thanks. MLC


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The usual.

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Tap, tap, tap. Hmm? Pulling the blanket closer, I scoot left searching out my resident toe warmer.

Tap, tap, tap; more insistent. Suddenly I'm awake, not in my bed and I'm alone.

How did I…?

Oh gosh! What time is it?

Four.

Four!

P.M?

The last thing I recall is sitting by Logan's bedside.

"Sue," Electra's voice filters through the door.

"Hang on a sec," I've got to make sure I'm decent. Yep; fuzzy flannel nightgown. My spouse hates it but like his well-worn flannel shirts, I'll not part with it. Ends up on the floor most nights but that's another issue all together. "Come on," I call to my friend.

She pokes her head through the door, "Didn't wanna bother you miha but your son's on the phone."

Motioning her to stay I pick up the phone and select the waiting circuit. "Hello."

"Hey mom."

It's Matthew.

"Just checkin' in. How come you're not home?"

It takes me a minute to clear the cobwebs; remember the boys are with their dad. I suppose; hope they're unaware of what's happened. "Long story, son."

"Everything ok?"

Not really but I'm not going to burden him. "How's the sunny Caribbean?"

"It's there."

"Surfing?"

"Sucks."

"Bummer. How come?"

"No wave action."

"Ah! That's a definite problem. Where's Trav?"

"Dunno."

What the heck's going on with motor mouth junior? "Hey kiddo really, why so bummed?"

There's a pause and a sigh, "Dad wants to talk to you."

Lovely! I need to talk to that man like I need a hemorrhoidectomy. I swear if Allen's been giving Matt the third degree over Canada and such, I'll drop a nuke on his pompous head.

"Happy New Year," my ex exults crisply.

What's happy about it? "Thanks. What's up?"

"The news down here is all about a terrorist attack in the City. The boys are insistent I check on you. Obviously when we couldn't reach you at home…."

"You can tell them I'm a-okay. Is that why Matt seems out of sorts?"

"Hmmm. I hadn't noticed."

Ok, so it's you who's concerned? Right. "Come off it Allen."

"Susan, I need to ask a serious question."

"Ok."

"Did that….did your….husband have anything to do with last nights events?"

Crap! He's been pumping Matt for information. "Why would you ask that?"

"Matthew's unusual mode of transportation."

"What? My employer's private jet?"

"No. The flight before that."

Oh no! Matt must have said something. Stupid me, I didn't even think to tell him to keep it to himself. "I appreciate your concern."

"I understand," Allen replies gently. "Is everything alright?"

"Things are stable."

He may have been a complete jerk as a mate but he does know how to be professional and abides by the verbal shorthand we used to use discussing confidential matters.

He sighs, "Good. Susan, despite the recent tension between us…."

"Allen, we need to talk…. when you get back."

"Yes, I think we do. Perhaps with our attorney's present."

Oh miserable, conniving, two-faced turdball! Hold out the olive branch then bite the hand that reaches. "Maybe we should communicate_ through_ our attorneys."

"That's a bit extreme."

"Allen, let's drop it, ok?" I don't give him an opening to return a volley, "Bye."

Returning attention to my friend, Electra looks as embarrassed as I feel, "Sorry you had to hear that."

She grins wryly and nods.

"Thanks for waiting." I'm just as eager to change the subject. "How's…."

"He's doing ok. Still unconscious. His vitals are in the sky so you know there's heavy duty healing factor going on."

"Ororo, Pete?"

"So far, so good. Symptom free, restful night. Neither can hear well yet."

"It's going to take time. One more question: How did I get up here?"

She laughs. "You poor bebe. You conked out beside Logan. Put your head down on the mattress and next thing we knew the zee's were floating. Vic practically carried you up here."

I feel a blush of crimson in my cheeks and reflexively dip my head. "What time?'

"Oh, maybe five; the sun wasn't up."

"Wow. I've been asleep almost twelve hours."

"Not just you…"

"No doubt. Crap!"

"Por que?"

"My glucose needs testing; missed a dose of my blood pressure meds."

"Si. Want to get checked out?"

"Maybe later. Hey 'Lectra, speaking of all things maternal, have you said anything to Vic yet?"

She smiles, her perfect teeth gleam against milk chocolate complexion. "He cried. But don't you dare let on I told you."

"Trust me. You two keeping this quiet?"

"Haven't had the chance to discuss it but I think so. We'd completely given up hope after my last miscarriage ten years ago."

"O lordy. You two go on the top of my prayer list."

"Muchas gracias, miha because prayer and luck is about all there is."

"How about a crack high risk OB?"

"We've been through all that. Our….. my problem has to do with the electrical field my body generates. But nobody knows why or what to do about it."

"So when would you be out of the woods?"

"Again, no telling. I've miscarried so many times and had two stillbirths. I guess about ten times in all, through the years."

"Oh Electra, I'm so sorry."

"No, no. Every time is a gift. After all this time I didn't think it was possible anymore."

"You've got more faith and grace than me, girlfriend. Can I mention it to Logan?"

"Might as well. He'll sense it anyway."

"That's for sure."

**xXx**

Beep, beep, beep. Drat! What's with these phone calls? Hardly any one knows where I am. "This is Susan."

"Sue, it's Julia….."

"Oh my gosh!" I exclaim smacking a palm to my forehead. "I promised Logan would call."

"It's ok. Scott told me what happened. Circumstances as they are; I don't want you concerning yourself with what's happening here." She's coldly business like and I can't tell whether she's sincere.

"How's Elizabeth?"

"Publicly, fine. Privately…. Well, she's my mother."

Yeah, she's sincere and stuck coping with a fruit loop for a mother.

"Julia, she was a wreck when she called and I didn't understand everything. What really happened?" Please read between the lines and tell me what happened to the paperwork we signed.

"Robert's car hit black ice. Apparently spun out of control over an embankment and caught fire. It's tragic though it could have been much worse, you know?"

"Hmmm. How so?"

"Mother thought she'd go along."

A chill skitters up my backbone and I gasp; thoroughly at a loss for words. It's terrible enough Logan's gesture of love is tainted with one tragedy. Issues with his mother or not I don't want to think how compounding it would make him feel. As it is, I dread breaking the news when the time comes.

Julia continues, "I haven't told her about Ja—Logan. I thought it best to hear things from you first."

"Right. As far as I know he's stable but we really don't know how long 'til he's well. When are services planned?"

"The memorial's Friday. He's being cremated so the burial's going to be rather intimate. We're having to cope with; um, his children."

"I see." That family's got more skeletons in more closets. "Julia, would it help if I spoke to Elizabeth?"

"At the moment, no. She's quite preoccupied with arrangements and such."

In the back of my mind I'm thinking Julia's wrong. Elizabeth is the type of woman who takes note of everything. But she's not my mother, so out of it I remain. "Ok. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

"I don't want to sound cruel but the best thing is to keep my brother away. I can manage mother."

Excuse me! There's a side of me that's thoroughly insulted but all things considered, I think I understand where she's coming from. "I'm sure you know best when it comes to Elizabeth."

**xXx**

It's a fact that unpleasant things come in threes. "Oh, Doctor Harris," calls a voice I'm not really in the mood to hear.

Pausing outside the door to my office, "Yes, Doctor Jennings?"

"How's Logan doing?"

None of your business. "Recovering."

"Good. It's imperative I speak to him."

"Yes, you made that clear; um, the other night. It's going to be a while longer."

She snips, "How much longer?"

Ooh, you pushy bitch! I can feel the blood pressure pounding in my ears. "He was basically blown up so how the heck should I know?"

If body language were a weapon I'd be a crispy critter but I couldn't care less. I've got the bigger gun right now; control over access to Logan. "And even if I did, get this; we have a few priorities to deal with before we deal with you."

"I don't think it's your place to set priorities when it comes to _our_ daughter."

That makes me pivot on my heel. "Oh whoa! Back up, Marla. Two weeks ago Logan was nothing more—what did you say? He only supplied the biological material? So don't you dare pull that _our_ daughter crap."

"Circumstances change."

"They certainly do."

"I beg your pardon." She cranes her neck like a swan with a fish stuck in its throat. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You reap what you sow." Can't help pointing my finger, punctuating each word. "And I don't appreciated you dragging Logan into something he isn't responsible for."

She's puffed up like a hen in a chicken coop. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"That's a false assumption."

"Maybe so but I don't think it makes any difference."

"I think it's false assumptions that got you in this mess in the first place."

"How dare you!"

Beet red, I hope she doesn't pop a vessel or something.

"Do you think I want to be here? Have my daughters life turned upside down? Come crawling to anyone? Believe me, if had another choice I'd take it."

Lowering my voice, I swoop in with the killer question, "And if you didn't know Logan was alive?"

Her shoulders sag and she shakes her head. "Doctor Harris, I'm acutely aware that some disturbing facts must be put forward due to my ill advised actions in the past."

"Marla, cut the uber diplomacy. You screwed up and the consequences are beyond disastrous."

She's squirming; her eyes fix anywhere but on me. "When may I see him?"

Never. "You'll see him when I release him from care. Now excuse me, I've got patients."

**xXx**

"There you are." A soft angels' voice caresses my ear and I blink trying to focus on the golden glow hovering above.

Wisps of images float through my mind. Crazy man tearing through a forest. A space station. Toppled grave stones. Hospitals. Posh indoor swimming pool keeps mixing up with icy, polluted river water….and pain.

Where the fuck am I and somebody wanna tell me why I feel like I been run through a giant dull bladed blender?

Sense of smell comes back on line; antiseptic, filtered air, plastic and steel. Answers the where question.

I smell her: baby powder, citrus shampoo, prolactin and progesterone. She coos, "Logan." Her warm, soft hand is heaven against my cheek.

My vision clears and oh, what a vision!. "Darlin'."

Izzat gravelly wheeze coming from me?

She smiles and smoothes the hair from my forehead, "Welcome back."

Our finger tips touch, "How long?"

"Two days."

"Pretty bad, huh?"

"On the scale of one to ten, I'd say about twelve and a half."

From the scent of her fatigue, I'll buy that.

"Hanging in?" I ask pressing my palm softly against her belly. Think she's grown.

"We're all fine," her smile's a beacon. "Do you remember anything?"

I nod but things're fuzzy. A little self exploration tells me body parts are all there but not all of 'em are working like they oughtta. My fingers touch a solid plastic patch covering my left eye. Guess that explains why I got only half a field of vision.

"Time to get out o'here," I declare and try sitting up. Bad move. Feels like a swarm of pissed off hornets attacking from butt to toes

"Will you hold on," she orders pushing against my chest.

"No," I bark and promptly start hackin' up part of a lung.

"Logan. Don't be an idiot. You've still got a lot of healing to do."

"Darlin'," I wheeze, a bloody glob filling my mouth. She hands off a plastic basin so can spit. "We go through this every time. Med lab ain't the place for me. Now you gonna help me or do I do it myself?"

Arms crossed, her smile is wicked. "Go on. I have no doubt the IV'll come out easily. It's the Foley catheter I going to really enjoy watching you deal with."

Foley Catheter? Whatever! Starting to swing my legs off the bed there's a tugging at my groin. "Fuck!" I growl. "Ya got thirty seconds to get that thing out o'me or..."

"Or what?"

Gotta think this through. I could pull it out. Ain't gonna feel real good. Don't relish the collateral damage. Talk about a twist on being got by the balls. I give her my best evil eye and throw the sheet off.

"Holy shi—it!" What the fuck happened to my legs? Withered, misshapen and blackened they're a pair of hot dogs left on the grill days after the barbeque.

"You're vastly improved over a couple hours ago but see what I'm saying? It's too soon Logan."

Right or wrong, the med lab still ain't where I'm going finish mending. "Don't care. Now get this stuff off." I'll carry the damn hook ups, collection bag and everything to the shower and deal with it myself. That's assuming these burnt sticks of jerky can take me the distance.

"I'll make a deal with you."

"Yeah?"

"I'll cut you loose but you hafta promise we'll stay here one more night."

She catches my dirty look. "Well not here but in your old room."

"What for?"

"Because I can't handle you myself if anything goes wrong."

Much as I'd like to, can't argue with her. "Ok but get this shit out and make it quick."

"Trust me, you don't want me to take the cath out quickly," she counsels while slipping the IV from my arm.

"Why not?"

She snaps on gloves.

"Lift your butt," she says and spreads padding under me. "Oh, about nine inches of tubing…"

She takes hold of me and I flinch. "Sorry. Did that hurt?"

"Cold."

She nods and continues, "….That needs to be gently withdrawn…."

I suck in my breath. It doesn't hurt but it feels fucking weird as she snakes the thing out.

"…From a tender spot. Even for a tough guy like you."

"Cute."

"Deep breath," she instructs. "Now, blow it out."

"Guhff—owww!" Instinctively I cup myself. "Son of a bitch burns like a mother fucker!"

Blue appears in the door way, "Thought I heard voices. Eloquent as usual my friend and you're looking significantly improved."

Peachy! Right now all I wanna do is curl up while my dick feels like somebody injected it with acid and I've got an audience. Double bird to ya, bub.

He chuckles, "Ah yes, the flying fickle finger of fate," and rubs the stethoscope on his lab coat. "Let's check the vitals."

"Got a wife for that, bub."

His tone is cordial but there's no mistaking his authority, "Who is officially off the duty roster for the next ninety six hours; at least."

"Uh Hank, that's four days. Even my OB isn't that heartless," she complains.

Hank hmms and umms. "Good. Pulse a little fast, Lungs clearer," then seamlessly replies to Susie. "Maybe so, but you need rest from your surgery and whether Gimpy admits it or not, he needs down time."

What the fuck? "Gimpy!"

Susie giggles, "Hank, don't ya think with the eye patch Blackbeard suits him better?"

Hank pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and laughs, "I'll get back to you on that."

"Let's not and say ya did," I vent.

"Listen well, you two," Hank's all seriousness. "I don't want to see hide nor hair of you until Wednesday at which time Logan needs to begin hyperbaric therapy."

"Oh whoa! What the hell's hyper—whatsit therapy?"

Susie clamps a hand over my mouth. "Hush! It's for another day. How 'bout chow?"

"That's the best thing I've heard since last year. How 'bout a couple o'steaks, eggs; easy over?" My stomach rumbles. "And wash it all down with a six pack."

"I'll approve the steak and eggs my friend. As for the six pack; give your healing factor a couple more hours."

"Aw c'mon Hank. There's grain and yeast—lot's o'good shit. Liquid bread."

He laughs aloud, "Creative Logan, very creative."

He ain't laughing when he says, "No."

**xXx**

Food and a shower's done me wonders. Standing out here on the terrace by Sue's office it feels good to breathe fresh air. It's been snowing. In the twilight the grounds seem peaceful draped in a thick, luminescent blanket of the stuff.

A bunch of the younger kids are off in the distance having the mother of all snowball fights. It's tempting to get into it with 'em but I ain't up to speed yet. If it hadn't been for adamantium bones in my legs I'd be a; well, I wouldn't be standing on 'em any time soon.

Looks like somebody got a dog over the holidays. Huge, furry Newfoundland, I think. Seems to be having a blast chasing snowballs and barking its head off.

Susie's caught me up on all the latest and done a great job keeping a huge thorn outta my backside; namely Marla Jennings. Thanks to a vast network of concealed passages and lifts we can move through most of the school undetected.

Secret passages can't save me having to face another situation and now I'm fiddling with the cell phone trying to figure it out. The explosion scrubbed a lot of shit from my memory including news about Robert. Goddamn, that sucks!

I gotta do the right thing and it ain't simply guilt driving me. When Susie passed on my sis's wish that I stay the hell away; gotta admit I think Julia's right—for now. Hope I'm wrong but I got a sneaking suspicion about the wreck and that's were I won't keep out of it. But can't do shit about it for now.

Here goes nothin'.

Phillip the butler answers, "Howlett residence." The guy must starch his shorts.

"It's Logan. Can I speak to Elizabeth?"

"Mrs. Howlett is unavailable, sir."

Figures. "How 'bout Julia?"

"Unavailable as well. May I take a message?"

Ok. Are they unavailable as in out or unavailable as in ain't talking t'me? "Yeah. Tell 'em I called."

"Very good sir."

"Thanks." And unclench ol' man before you cut of your circulation.

Just as I click off I hear a voice from Susie's office. "It's been two days. I know he's back on his feet. I want to see him and I want to see him now."

"I don't make up his schedule," my darlin' replies.

"You're both avoiding me."

"Think whatever you like, Marla."

Marla leans both arms on Sue's desk and gets in her face, "Where is he?"

Enough o'this shit. "Turn around," I growl and step through the French door.

Flinching like I goosed her with a branding iron she faces me square on. "It's about ti…Oh my god! Logan, you look like death warmed over."

Look in the mirror lately, bitch? "Whadaya want?"

She glances sourly at Susie, "We need to speak privately."

"Nope."

"Fine," she huffs.

"You know what?" Sue interjects. "I think this whole thing'll go a lot better if I'm not sitting here."

That's not what I expected. "Ya sure?"

"Yes. Unless you need me to stay."

"Up to you."

"I'll be in the conservatory," she pecks my cheek on the way out.

"Ok Marla, now what?"

"I need your help."

"Uh huh. Got that much when I talked to Charles. Take a load of your feet and tell me the whole story."

She spills her guts about Ruchinsky. I can tell she ain't lying but she's leaving out a helluva lot.

I ain't tipping my hand on what I remember. So we're playing connect the dots."Why's Ruchinsky want her?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit! Listen up, Marla; gimme the truth. All of it… or I walk."

"I told you they want to train her for god only knows what."

"God only knows what? I'll tell ya what but I shouldn't hafta. You were up to your neck with 'em same as me."

"No. Never like you."

"It's all relative. But think about it. Replication's was originally set up to create clones; super soldier clones. So, you telling me you don't know what Ruchinsky wants is telling me you're stupid."

"No need to be insulting."

"I just call 'em as I see 'em."

"It doesn't make sense. She's a little girl."

"Hell it doesn't. Just look at what the kid's got already and she's just begun to manifest her power. And for being a little girl; have ya taken a good look at her, Marla?" Ignoring her fuck off and die expression, "There are places where they train 'em young as nine or ten to be killers."

"I know," she chokes back a sob and it ain't croc tears.

"That's why I came to you, Logan. You're the only one I know who stands any chance of protecting our daughter from that fate."

Aw shit! Don't go all watery on me. Tossing the tissue box on Sue's desk in her direction; time to redirect the conversation. "Alright, explain how she's my kid and don't gimme the sperm donor routine"

"That's the truth."

"I want the rest of the truth."

"What do you know about in-vitro fertilization?"

"Test tube babies, right?"

"Correct. Simply put that's what Wendy is a product of."

"So how the hell did you wind up adopting her?"

"She's not adopted. I gave birth to her."

Holy shit! My stomach hits the floor. "So you _a_re her mother?"

"Not biologically. I was a surrogate."

"Then who is?"

"I told you I don't know and that's the truth."

"Did you know I was her father from the beginning?"

"Yes."

"And you don't know who her mother is? C'mon Marla, that's fuckin' BS."

"Logan, put a cork in that crude mouth of yours. There were hundreds of ovums banked but there were only five men in the program who were successful donors."

"Creed, North, Kane, me and…."

"Wade Wilson. You do know about it!"

"Dunno know nothing about any donor shit. I do remember givin' up a lot of samples as part of whatever testing and research Diebel ordered."

Five of us banking samples and how many eggs? Christ on a crotch rocket! "You're saying there's hundreds of …."

"No. The programs success was extremely limited."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"A majority of embryos weren't up to standard and were destroyed. Some of us volunteered for multiple implantations but that failed far too often as well. Alternative forms of gestation yielded no positive results. Ruchinsky told me himself that he knew of only about a half dozen successes; Wendy being one of those."

"You're telling me I got six kids like Wendy out there?"

She rolls her eyes and chortles, "Your ego's as big as your…..anatomy. I'm saying between all the male donors there were roughly six documented successes that Ruchinksy mentioned."

Uh huh. There's a comfort. Psychotic mini Creeds and Deadpools running loose. "That doesn't answer the question."

"I only have first hand knowledge of Wendy."

Damn the bitch and her hedging. "Care to guess?"

Suddenly feverish and weak, the pain from my regenerating eye stabbing through my head, I slide onto the nearby couch. "Nah, forget it."

Healing factors revving up for another agony trip. Lousy fucking timing.

"You're white as a ghost! Are you all right?"

Like you really give a flyin' fuck? "So what's the kid's story?"

"She was in a sub par batch bound for destruction. I took the batch and had a colleague help me implant the embryos. Six developed but in the twelfth week I miscarried. I thought I'd lost all of them but Wendy remained."

"How the hell did you that get past Replications?"

"Obviously I didn't. But, carrying multiples I went on medical leave. When I lost them I'd already tendered a transfer so there was no reason to let anyone know I'd not lost them all."

"Why'd ya do it?"

"I had my reasons and they're deeply personal."

"Why'd ya pick me or is that deeply personal too?"

"It is but it's fair I share them. Out of the five you and David North were the best. David was—is still alive as far as I know so it would have been wrong of me to have a child of his without his consent."

"Right, but I'm dead so hey, why not?"

"No. It wasn't that way. I loved you once and I thought you felt the same. In a bizarre way I felt having your child was a way to keep something of you alive. And you don't know how much I wish that Wendy's other half was mine."

Ain't touchin' those sentiments with a ten foot pole even if I believed 'em.

That squirrelly buzz sets up in my head again; memory from a lifetime ago. O-dark thirty in the morning; reachin' across the sheets to an empty, cold spot. Crack open an eye. See dim light coming from another room. Ease up behind her all set for more action and what's the slut doing? Sending off a goddamn performance report of our nightly activities!

"Didn't have anything t'do with love, Marla. Think I didn't catch on to what was goin' on? Fuck sake; couldn't pick yer nose or take a shit without somebody documenting it."

She won't look me in the eye. "We all had our difficult tasks. I'm sorry."

"Yep. Science project of the moment, eh?"

"She looks like she's going to crumble to dust. "Logan, I fell in love with you."

Lingering pheromones says she still does. Staring at a dot of lint on the carpet, "Tough luck," comes out polar and I mean it that way. Don't want her under any illusions.

It's time to get off this locomotive to nowhere. "So, 'bout the kid; what do ya want me to do?"

"What can you do?"

"Right now, I dunno. You made a good move when you brought the kid here. How much have ya told Charles?"

"Only the basics."

"Ok. Step one is to brief him; thoroughly. Wendy's a security nightmare and there's stuff that's gonna hafta happen."

She hugs her midsection and the stress hormones rocket off her. "He wouldn't turn us away?"

"No worries there. This place is a haven for fucked up cases. He took me in."

That evokes a grin. "Brave soul," she chuckles.

I flash a half grin in return, "Or nuts." Serious once more, "I'm gonna be honest about something."

"Go on."

"Wendy's gotta know everything."

"I don't agree."

"Get your head outta the sand, woman! Reps will do anything to get her. Unless we lock her up there's no way to protect her twenty-four seven. Knowledge is self-protective power."

"She'll hate me."

"I guarantee she'll hate you more when she figures it out on her own. And Marla, she's close."

"I'm afraid you're right. If I could just tell her the circumstances without naming names."

"I ain't gonna dictate how you handle it but ya better think it through. She's a crack telepath, strong empath and she's smart as a whip. Neither of us can shield forever."

**xXx**

My past is on a collision course with the present and the brisk night air and cigar do squat to ease my mind. Instinct tells me this is tied to the shit Creed warned about. Now Jennings brings the kid here. No fucking way is this coincidence.

This place is prime pickin's for that bunch of mother fuckers.

So what's another mother t'do?

Can't risk sitting tight and baiting 'em. Not here. Not with all these kids.

Pre-emptive strike. Shove it up their asses and pull the trigger.

It's the only way.

Xavier ain't gonna like it but compared to Ruchinsky and company, Stryker was just practice.

Gotta strip it to the basics. No way are they getting the kid

Gonna stop 'em.

Period.

With my bare hands and flyin' solo if I hafta.

"Hey look you guys. It's Logan," carries across the wintry landscape. "Doin' ok, coach?"

I give 'em the thumbs up.

A snowball arcs high and lands with a crunch close enough to splatter chunks of it on my jeans. Gathering up a fist full o'the stuff, I chunk another back—and it falls short? Well, fuck that! Left arm looks ok but it's still weak from being half blown away.

The tone's good natured but the kids don't miss the opportunity the rub it in. "Winter ain't over," I threaten, clamp my stogie tight between my teeth and lob a right hander. Bulls eye!

"Whoo-hoo! Logan's in," Ty, my little busted arm pal shouts.

Kids must be taking basic tactics to heart and launch an all out assault while Ty, gone ghost, sneaks in for an up close barrage of ice balls.

My own physical reserves starting to run low, as well as ammunition, "Hey you guys," I shout looking for an out. "Whose mutt?"

Converging en masse in my direction, they're yammering about the dog just showing up.

"Good dog like this is bound to belong somewhere." Ruffing his ears and neck feeling for a micro chip, he rewards with a slobbery lick for my trouble.

"Hey Coach," Ty says. "That thing on the Brooklyn Bridge was some kind of sc-a-a-ry."

No shit little dude. Ain't something I wanna repeat. Outdoor lighting dims twice signaling curfew and nixing a rehash of the gory details.

"You guy's get a move on before the Professor or Mister Summers hammers yer butts with eternal K.P."

"What's that?"

"Kitchen patrol."

A few of them got blank looks on their faces. "Look it up," I advise. "Now, get a move on." Their yes sir's are about as crisp as uncooked bacon.

A hundred fifty pounds of canine energy doesn't follow the pack. Tongue lolling, tail wagging, he parks himself at my feet.

Damn if I ain't a total sucker for a big ol' dog.

Had one for a couple years while I was on the road. Jake was a wolf mixed breed I rescued as a pup from an asshole who tossed him onto a freeway. Ended bad when another asshole mistook him for a wild wolf and shot him. I ended the assholes hunting career but missed that mutt something fierce for months afterward.

Aw, what the hell! Can't keep myself from giving him a brisk shoulder rub. "You're a good ol' boy, ain't ya?" He is an old boy, too. There's plenty of gray speckling his slobbery muzzle. "What's your name?"

The dog snorts and rolls over, exposing his belly. It's a gesture of trusts and surrender in the animal kingdom and it earns him a belly scratching from me.

"You're gonna be good for this place; yeah ya are." Gotta laugh at myself talking to a dog like this.

Something sets him on alert and he rolls back to standing. I sense it too and when he doesn't sense alarm from me his tail flicks back and forth.

"Whose your friend?" Susie comes from behind and rubs my shoulders.

"Dunno, Kids say he just showed up yesterday."

"He's a beauty." The dog sniffs and licks the hand she offers. "Brrr! Let's go in."

"Yeah." I snap my fingers at the dog and he accepts my invitation indoors. Susie's sideways glance vaporizes as he flops down by the door and drills her with nothing less than expression of pure canine adoration. Dog knows a prime woman when he sees one.

Rummaging through a stack of mail, Susie wades right in, "So what did she say?"

"Not exactly sure what to make of it all yet. What she's saying 'bout Replications ain't their style. Those bastards don't ask, ya know?"

"Not really."

"Something don't smell right. Why didn't they grab the kid right off the bat? I don't believe they've gone sloppy."

"Set up maybe?"

"Crossed my mind."

"Dear Lord! What's she want you to do?"

"Keep the kid safe."

"Well yeah, that's obvious. But safe from what exactly?"

"From gettin' fucked over like they did me."

She's sorted the mail into neat his and hers stacks, topping mine with a large yellow envelope. Addressed to both of us, it's one of those official looking things with Confidential stamped all over it. Somebody had to sign for it, evidenced by the green remnants of the Return Receipt. The sender; Worthington Laboratories, don't ring any bells. "What's this?"

"I think it's Wendy's DNA profile."

Hit me over the head with a fuckin' two by four! "Aw shit!"

"Piling higher and deeper," she sighs. "By the way, she didn't happen to shed any light on Wendy's parentage, did she?"

Shit! After her reaction to the last time this topic came up I might as well slit my throat now. "Yeah, she did."

It's one of those long, expectant pauses and she prompts, "Well?"

How'd I know she wasn't gonna let it lie? "Well what?"

"Rrrr! What did she say?"

"Marla ain't the kids real mom and she didn't adopt her."

"Really? Guess that explains why Scott can't locate any adoption records."

"Yeah. Marla's a whatchacallit—a surrogate."

"Ok." Crossing her arms and setting her jaw, her tone goes chilly. "That doesn't explain how you're mixed up in it."

My own anger feeds off hers. "Lemme tell ya darlin', I wasn't mixed up in it voluntarily. The kid got her start in a Petri dish and it was just luck o'the draw my….stuff was used."

"Luck of the draw? Oh c'mon Logan."

"There were five of us. Reps used us like…like breeding stock. I didn't put it together; all the testing and sampling and shit, until a couple days ago."

"Logan, when you say stuff, are you saying artificial insemination?"

"Hell if I know. Maybe. Come t'think about it, Marla never said."

"Back then that's all there was."

"Dunno Sue. They did take a lot more samples that just…that."

Popping a tip of a claw and slitting the envelope, the contents spills onto her desk. Scrawled on a neon orange sticky note on the first page is: _ Sue- Tested samples twice. Results unusual. See pg.4. Regards, KS._

"Like what?"

"Yer askin' me to remember?"

Hands on hips, suckin' on her lower lip, yeah she is.

"Blood, piss, shit….hell anything and everything. I'll tell ya this; bone marrow was a bitch."

Thumbing through the report, I can't make heads or tails of the squiggles, blobs and numbers. "What's this say darlin?"

She takes it, sits at her desk and reads it over… and over… and reads it again. I can smell confusion in her.

Now I'm getting antsy and drum my fingers on the shiny surface of her desk. "What?"

"Kathi's not kidding," her eyebrows arch. "This is bizarre," she replies still scanning the report.

"Hello, Susan! What's bizarre?"

The dog reacts to my frustration, raising its head and snorting.

"Can't be right," she mutters

"Dammit!" I pound the desk with my fist. "What?"

Ears perked, tail stilled and golden eyes glowing, the dog's up on his paws reacting to our emotions.

"Let that thing out," Susie suggests but dog breath resists.

"Lay down," I command and he does. Pointing to the spot by the door, I add, "Stay," for good measure.

"You'd think he belongs to you," Susie accuses.

"Maybe he should."

"No. Just no. The cats don't do dogs."

Right now the last thing I wanna think about is a giant fur ball. "Whatever. Now what the hell's with this report?"

"There are two distinct maternal DNA patterns!"

"Say what?"

She boots up a computer. "Look. This is you." She shows me a comparison between the report and the data she saved from my test results last spring "But here," she separates two pages from the report. "These marks indicate female patterns. There's…"

"Two," I complete her sentence.. "How?"

She chews on her fingernail. "W-e-l-l-l; I can make an educated guess. No; that technology didn't exist…"

"What technology?"

"Gene splicing. But even today it's cutting edge; extremely experimental."

"Babe, we're talking Replications here. Bonding bone and adamantium ain't a technology that exists either."

She nods. "Hmm. Good point."

She ain't got anything close to a poker face when the cogs in her brain are grinding together. "I dunno know, Logan. Fourteen or fifteen years ago….Oh well, maybe. The first test tube baby did just turn twenty something."

"Ya think the test is fucked up?"

"No but maybe the samples were contaminated."

"That's just great. Marla'll never let us close enough to the kid to get any more samples."

"Even if we did, it takes a solid two weeks for results."

"Fuck that, Sue. I'll get the answers."

"Logan, what are you thinking?"

Making tracks out of her office, I'm thinking I'm gonna choke a bitch to death if she don't A: start talking or B: let Sue get more blood from the kid.

"Logan, hold on," she blocks my path. "Don't do something crazy."

I ain't even close to berserker but I am pissed enough that it's a struggle not to shrug her off rough, "Back off Susan!"

She flinches and the smell of her fear throttles me back. "Ain't gonna do anything crazy."

"What_** are**_ you going to do?"

"Marla ain't lied to me but she's left a butt load of shit out of her story. She's gonna spill it one way or the other."

"Yeah, it's the one way or the other that makes me nervous." She reaches up and touches my cheek, "How about we talk to her together?"

Don't want the contact and I brush her hand away. "No."

That gets her Irish up and she snaps, "Logan, think about things for a minute. Please. Didn't you mean it when you said you wouldn't turn down a chance to be someone to Wendy?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Everything. If you alienate her mother you might never get that chance."

"You sayin' I'd screw it all up?"

"They way you are right now that's a strong possibility."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, darlin'."

With that I'm gone leaving her in the door way fuming and I don't give a shit! Aw hell, yeah I do. She's right, as usual. But godammit, she's gotta cut me some slack.

It doesn't take long to sniff out Marla but it's complicated. She and the kid are cozyed in the library. Maybe it's for the best; easier to rope in my emotions with Wendy around.

Crossing my arms and leaning into the door frame, "Hey kid."

Her guard goes up but curiosity's stronger. "H-hi. Wow! When Marie and Jubilee said nothing could hurt you they weren't lying."

I laugh and start to answer when Marla cuts me off.

"Can I help you?"

I try to sound neutral. "I gotta ask ya something."

She's perturbed and it shows. "Can't it wait?"

"Wouldn't be standing here if it could."

Wendy's gone nervous and glances back and forth between us; no doubt tuning into to the bad vibes between her mother and me. Her ability to surf my mind's definitely stronger than the last time.

Marla puts her hand to the side of her head, "Wendy, stop it."

"No mom. I wanna know what's really going on."

"We'll talk later. Now please give Coach Logan and me a few minutes."

"I'm not stupid, you know. First you think it's cool for me to go to school here. The next day it's like not happening…"

"Wendy Leigh, I told you we'll talk about this later."

"Nah ah. Then that guy completely messes up our vacation; we're jetted right back here and you've been freaked out ever since."

"That'll do young lady."

"Aarrggh! Mother, please."

"All right but let me talk with Logan first."

"He's part of whatever you're blocking me from, isn't he?

The kids on the mark and Marla only digging the hole deeper. "Wendy, do as your mom says."

She studies me carefully and I can feel her surfing my mind as hard she can. Anger and frustration stink like rotten cabbage. She dips her head, knits those eyebrows and sneers. By god if it ain't like looking in a mirror.

"You think just because you're my father you can tell me what to do?"

Holy shit!

"Wendy! Where did you get such an idea?"

Marla glares accusingly at me and all I can do is shake my head.

She stares and me and then her mother, "I'm right, aren't I?"

Crossing my arms, I stare at Marla. If the kid's reading my told ya so thought, then let it be.

Marla looks like she about to be sick, swallows hard, "How long ago did you figure this out?"

"For sure; just right now. But mom, you've been blocking all these weird things…" Big tears roll down the kid's cheeks. "And so has he. Why wouldn't you tell me?"

Aw shit, two weeping wenches. Break out the violins.

"I was…I will….Oh Wendy, it's a very complicated thing."

The kid stares at me and I ain't immune to the sour stink of betrayal and hurt rolling off her.

"How come? Why didn't you say anything?" she hiccups between sobs.

Because your mom's a stupid bitch and I caved when I shouldn't have. "Honey, you're mom thought it was important that she told ya."

"Oh!" she squeaks.

Mollification doesn't last but a second before she whips, "Mom, if I'm adopted how can I have a living dad?"

Oh yeah, kids sharp as a tack. Let's see Marla worm out of this.

"Well, lot's of men make babies they don't become aware of or take responsibility for."

Hold on. Don't fuckin' paint me as the deadbeat dad here.

There's razor scrutiny as the kid blasts me, "So which one are you?"

Angling my head toward her mother, I reply, "Ask her."

"Mom?"

"Damn you Logan. Look what you've done. Get out. Just go."

"Haven't done a goddamn thing woman and I ain't going nowhere 'til I find out what I need t'know."

"I've told you everything."

"Yeah? Then what the fuck's double maternal DNA all about?"

The kid butts in, "What's he talking about?"

Ignoring Wendy, Marla snips, "How do you know about that?"

"Little thing called a DNA profile."

"Oh my god! What gave you the right?"

"Ain't debating rights, Marla. Gimme an answer or a sample from the kid."

Coiled and fanged, Marla spits, "You can go to hell."

"After you darlin'."

Wide eyed, yanking on dark auburn curls, rocking back and forth, the kids about to meltdown. "Mommy! Somebody tell me what's going on."

"Logan, get out," Marla commands. "Now."

"No, no," Wendy howls. "You gotta tell me."

Marla's head snaps back; she stumbles and screams, "Wendy! Stop!"

"Grrraagghh!" It feels like a repeat of the Brooklyn Bridge inside my skull. Brain's on spin cycle and I gotta grab the door frame to steady myself. The kid's scouring my mind like a roto rooter.

"Kid!" Gotta yell over the mental claxon blaring in my brain.

Either she's way stronger than before or my neurons are still fragged from the bomb blast.

"Wendy….Stop."

The aminial's rattling its prison. Can't let it break free; ruin the kids mind with the hell visions polluting my mind.

The kid's piercing scream sets the dog to barking furiously.

Marla screams, "Stop her! Somebody help. Logan, do something!"

"Like what?" I yell lurching forward.

Wendy's shield repels me, almost knocking me on my ass.

A ricochet effect flattens her mother. The shock sends her into hysterics, her screams drowning out the kids.

Bam! Everything freezes and a blanket of silence falls. No screaming, no barking, no whine of the psi-shield. Nothing. The battlefield inside my skull stills.

Ain't the kids doing and it sure as hell ain't me. Another powerful presence clamps a lid down on the party. The psychic signature's familiar and he's circling the wagons. If the kid walks away from this relatively unfucked, I'm buyin' Charles Xavier a case of the best liquor of his choosing.

Kid's a basket case; wild eyed, tear streaked, fingers tearing at her hair. Terror bleeds from every pore, making her gibber and shake uncontrollably.

"They hurt you. They hurt you," she moans.

"And…" she sinks to her knees.

"They're going…" She pitches forward.

Leaping toward her I hear, "…Going hurt mommy…"

Going fetal on the floor, she cries, "…And me."

"Kid! Look at me. Wendy, look at me."

Blood shot eyes peer through tangled hair.

"As long as I got breath in my body I swear I'll protect ya." Glancing at Marla I hammer the final coffin nail, "And your Mom."

_**Authors Note:** As usual, I've got to thank my beta, especially for a couple of 'give me' lines she so generously offered.  
Feedback is always appreciated; positive and negative. Helps me grow and spurs me to write more.  
Hang tight. With luck and a cooperating Muse Chapter Five should be up in about four to six weeks.- MLC.  
_


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

"Arrgghh!" There isn't a more bull headed son of a gun on the face of the earth. What in the hell does he think he's going to accomplish? Idiot me; I should have kept that mail out of sight for another day.

The test results can't be right though Worthington Labs has never failed me before… Maybe I'll just call Kathi. Oh, piss ants! It's Sunday.

A blue coifed head pokes around the door, "And what do you think you're doing, dear lady? I specifically recall prescribing no duty for the next three days."

Feigning contrition, "Curses, you caught me. But…" I'm struggling for an excuse. "…blame that husband of mine."

A dry chuckle rumbles from Hank McCoy's belly, "I shall. Direct me to the slave driver whereby I shall inflict a severe tongue lashing upon is unsuspecting brow."

Logan will make hamburger out of Hank. "Blood red goes very well with cobalt," I tease.

"Yes, it's the hue of the season I hear."

"He's gone to track down Marla Jennings. Wendy's DNA results are back."

Hank exhales, "Confirming paternity, no doubt."

"Like that was ever in question. Problem is it's raised more questions than it's answered."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Yeah, but where do I start?"

"The beginning is the usual recommendation."

"Luv ya, ya over grown Smurf."

"Papa Smurf to you, my dear."

"Eww, Hank. Don't go there. Have you ever seen what the internet has done to a perfectly innocent children's cartoon?"

"Indeed not and I'll thank you to preserve my proper sensibilities."

"Hah, hah," I quip and think, proper my buns. He's such a gentleman and a character and I'm always grateful for his ability to insert the correct little something just when it's needed most. "First off, I think the sample was contaminated." Sliding the sheaf of paper across my desktop, I urge, "Take a look"

Hank leans against bookshelves behind my desk. Studying intently, bristly indigo brows arch as he slides his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. His tawny eyes narrow, crinkling in the corners, "Fascinating," he mutters.

"See what I mean? Two mitochondrial matches; it's got to be wrong."

Boring into me point blank he declares, "No it doesn't, Sue."

And they thought the world was flat once, too. I can't help planting my hands on my hips and rolling my eyes.

He clicks his tongue and offers, "The Weapon Plus program and its affiliates have developed many biological and technological advancements that defy conventional standards."

"Yeah, Logan said something along those lines."

Hank nods, a knowing and pained expression creasing his features, "And taking into consideration the interest the child has seemingly garnered from the infamous Stanislav Ruchinksy and associates...

"What about that Hank? Logan either doesn't remember or he's giving me the mushroom treatment."

"I won't speculate as to Logan's recall or actions. Why don't we run the cross matches right now?"

"You wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all. My curiosity's rather piqued." He makes himself comfortable at Electra's computer, caddy cornered from my desk.

All becomes quiet except for the hum and chittering of our computers going full bore.

"Damn!" I murmur after several minutes.

"Problem?"

"I'm not coming up with a thing; even tried a few private sites."

"Yes. I'm running into road blocks as well. I believe it's time to access special assistance. I need you to step away from your computer, my dear…."

"I see."

"No, you don't. That's the point."

"Gotcha."

Tap-tapping the keyboard, he explains, "This site isn't top level secure but it's not something Mutant Affairs advertises."

"So you can't Doodle it?"

"No….. Viola!" he exclaims with a flourishing gesture.

"What is this?"

He offers me the chair. "Enter your sequence of numbers."

Data zips past our eyes and in short order my screen fills with an image and a tidy little dossier. "Boy, oh boy! This is handy."

"It can be quite useful." Reading over my shoulder, he murmurs, "Hmm, Mandy Celestine; why does that ring a bell?"

We discover our subject is known as Mantis in some circles. Currently affiliated with the Justice League, she's codenamed Willow.

"Not exactly compliant with privacy laws, is it?" I complain.

"The concern has been raised. But you know as well as I mutant-kind is exempt from such protections and the Justice League has been a not so silent champion of registration."

"So, registration automatically gets you in the database?"

"Oh yes, but there are other ways."

"Bet there are."

"But despite potential misuse, it's still one of the best tools for matching difficult cases."

"I guess." Swiveling my chair, "Any luck with yours?" I ask.

"I'm… double checking….I may have mistyped."

"Oh sorry. Just tell me to clam up."

I wonder…? While Hank buries his nose back into his computer, I can't resist typing in Logan's DNA sequence. It takes just long enough for me to be squirming in my seat.

"Oh, now what the heck is this?" I mutter. A crummy scan of a newspaper article appears on my screen; and it not even in English. Wait. Not so fast. Scrolling down, there's a translation.

…Multiple homicide…key members of Hatsumo and Sons, LLC, one of Japans leading importers and numerous family….distinctive wounds….traces of Mutant DNA….

Telling myself, this can't be right, I retype the sequence and I feel sick when the same thing stares back at me. The phrase 'distinctive wounds' replays in my mind and this time I read for detail.

"Listen to this, Hank."

"Hmm," he replies absently.

"The victims exhibited peculiar wound patterns. Either three precisely spaced stab wounds or equally precisely spaced slash marks. It also appears that the perpetrator was well versed in exactly how and where to inflict mortal wounds."

"What in blazes are you looking at?"

"Something I wish I wasn't. How accurate is this stuff?"

"Very."

"Oh God," I groan. "Be honest with me. Have you looked Logan up on this thing?"

He coasts on this chair the distance between us, "I strongly advise you to regard what you're seeing with extreme caution. And yes, I have researched Logan."

Craning my neck toward the screen, "And this is what you found?"

"Susan, very accurate isn't one hundred percent. Don't jump to any conclusion based on a single, biased newspaper article."

"You're right. But with his DNA matching whatever traces were obtained at the scene of this crime…..Dammit, at the very minimum this thing implicates my husband in a. .. massacre."

His beefy fingers separate mine from the lock of hair I'm fiddling with. "Yank much more and you'll have a bald spot, my dear."

A knock on the door startles us, "Hey there …..Wow! You two look like Doctor Doom just escaped from the SuperMax."

"Tell us some good news, my friend," Hank shoots back.

"Hoo-kay. I'm on my way to the funeral."

"Scott! Oh gosh, is it tomorrow?"

"Day after. Do me a favor. Tell Logan I handled most of the debrief from New Years Eve. All he needs to do is send Charles his report on the Mutant Town incident."

"Oh, what's that about?"

A muscle quivers in Scott's jaw and it's not from grinning. "Don't know all the details but apparently his team tangled with a gang en route to the bridge."

My husband's a disaster attracting magnet. I sigh deeply, "I guess I'll hear all about it at the next staff briefing.

Scott crows, "Which is Wednesday afternoon."

"Yes sir. It's on my schedule. And speaking of a hot topic for the agenda; Wendy's DNA test results are in."

"Oh really?"

"Oh really," I repeat. "It's a mess."

His laugh is hollow, "When's anything involving Logan ever not?"

Hank snorts back a snicker.

"Not funny guys."

"Sorry," they reply. Hank's contrition sounds true. Scott's, having been subjugated to Logan's mercurial behavior in Canada, is merely a polite gesture.

"So what's the story?" Scott asks.

"Have time?"

Glances at his watch, "A couple minutes."

"Pull up a chair," I suggest pointing to the nearest one. "How's your background on genetics?

"Basics."

"Ok, so you know humans carry a pair of genetic materials; a set of traits from each parent. Well…..I'm oversimplifying but Wendy's got three; one paternal and two maternal."

His mouth drops open, the quickly closes, "Want to explain that?"

"Wish I could. According to what Marla told Logan Wendy's conception involves in vitro reproductive technology."

"That's the reason I can't dig up anything on her adoption?"

"Strong clue, for sure but it's opens up another whole can of worms that we'll hafta fish with."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I'm by no means an expert on IVF but this kind of genetic manipulation has only been done at a very limited cellular level."

"Isn't this cloning?"

"No. In cloning all the child's genes would come from acell of a single individual. This is genetic engineering the likes of which is not supposed to be possible in humans."

"Son of a bitch! Does Logan know about this?"

"Yes as a matter of fact he's supposed to be talking to Marla right now."

"So besides Logan, who else is Wendy…umm….related to?"

"That's what we're working on now." Glancing at Hank, "Any luck yet?" He shakes his head.

Tugging Scott's sleeve, "Check this out." In dire need of a moment of comic relief I make like a game show host boasting, "Behind this screen is…..Mommy number one," as Mantis' profile reappears.

Scott silently reads the text. "Alpha level psychic empathy, huh? Not a lady I'd like on the bad guys team."

Hank and I nod.

"Who's the other match?"

"That's what I'm attempting to confirm," Hank replies. "If this computer decides to cooperate."

Paired up behind Hank, we peer over his bulky shoulders and stare at the Please Wait icon on the computer screen.

A scream; the kind that makes your blood congeal shatters our concentration and at almost the same instant I hear in my mind: Emergency! To the library, now!

If it weren't such a serious beckon from Charles the sight of all three of us jockeying to get out the door at the same time would be comedic; something like The Three Stooges. Gentlemen that they are, Hank and Scott grant me right of way and at least for me, in worried silence we practically fly the distance between my office and the library.

xXx

The kids shield neutralized, I gather her trembling little body in my arms. Scrawny, almost weightless, I can feel her ribs through her blouse. "Hush angel. 'S ok."

No clue exactly what she extracted from inside my head but from the way she's reacting, the bitter vapor of her emotions, it's way more than the fact I'm her father.

Breathing in shallow, quick gasps her beautiful face is the color of parchment. Her delicate features contort and blood trickles from her nostrils; a sure sign of a telepathic crisis.

Intimate contact with her is a serious tactical error. She's quick to exploit it, sinking psychic claws deep into my mind, ripping through my shields, vivisecting my soul.

Agonizing physical and mental pain drives my healing factor into combat mode. If a cesspool of horrific mayhem and tortured mental images don't halt her assault my psychic blocks, mounting a seek and destroy mission, are a nuke that will obliterate her mind.

Her mother regains a voice, searing me with acid verbiage. Right now I can't cope with two women in the throes of nuclear meltdown and I growl warning to the bitch.

Mindful but seething, she retreats. Pacing, alternately gesturing with or wringing her hands, she's muttering hateful threats to my manhood and life.

Wendy's eyes dart frantically between me and her mom. Hot tears roll down mottled cheeks and she dissolves into insuppressible sobs.

Unable to stop myself, I pull her closer, "Nobody's gonna hurt ya."

A surge of emotions, hers; chokes me in a tumultuous noxious cloud. She mines the pain of long buried regrets, peels away scabs formed of grief and despair, exposes camouflaged self loathing.

A damnable revelation explodes in the war zone of my mind. My god! She's the ultimate weapon; the only thing I can't fight.

Non existent defenses penetrated, I stand naked, vulnerable in the reflection of emotions I deny. Emotions I cannot, dare not express. She's turned my own blackened and tortured soul against me.

Invaded and overwhelmed, the unholy trinity of berserker, feral and man plunge into dire psychic combat.

The putrid reek of her mother's fear and hatred fuels the berserker and it's only her maternal protectiveness toward the kid that checks its lust for spontaneous combustion.

Feral claims victory. Stripping to the basics it keens wordlessly; my cub …protect her. Rising from my haunches, my nostrils flair testing for the scent of threats.

Wendy whimpers; her pheromones shift subtly. Something coiled inside me releases and reason rebounds forcing the animal's retreat. Feral thought patterns become a man's: She my kid….my daughter. She needs help.

Suddenly, there's a commotion at the door and I catch multiple scents at nearly the same moment

Glancing at the throng, I plead from a core of something undiscovered inside of me, "Charles! Whatever it takes…. help her,"

Unexpectedly, she calms and snakes pencil thin arms around my neck. "My kid… my daughter," she repeats the mantra in my head, her voice a hoarse whisper. Red rimmed, brown eyes glisten, piercing my own, "You…do care,"

Shutters descend. Her head lolls. A whisper of breath seeps between pale lips before she stills like death in my arms.

xXx

A/N: Can't forget the disclaimer. Marvel owns them, I'm simply having fun. Can't forget a thank you to my beta: Thanks! Sorry this took so long. I had huge distractions. This is a tad short compared to other chapters but take heart, Six is begun and I hope to have it posted quicker than this. Please review. I always love to hear from my regulars but I'd love to hear from you silent readers. All praise and fair criticism is welcome and reflected upon seriously. MLC


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

A shrill wail fills the library, piercing my eardrums. "You killed my baby. You….monster! I'll make you pay," Marla Jennings lashes out.

Rocking back and forth with Wendy in my arms, I mumble, "She ain't dead. I swear. She'll be ok," while Marla's pummeling fists bounce off my head, shoulders and back. Feels like nothing compared the bludgeoning my kid laid on my mind.

Charles reasserts control. He smells agitated but his voice is smooth and calm issuing verbal and telepathic commands. "Scott, Electra, escort Doctor Jennings to my office. Logan, Susan, kindly wait for my summons from the comfort of your quarters or office."

Marla goes still and quiet but the look on her face is anything but. Scott takes her by the arm, as a formal escort might. She shuffles along still shooting poison darts of hate at me.

Hank McCoy stands in front of us, his burly arms outstretched, "Logan, I've got her."

I can't make myself give her up. The feral isn't fully subdued and like a wolf protecting its cub, I growl low in my throat.

Susie gasps and I sense confusion and deep apprehension.

Jeezus, pull it together ya fucker! She's had more than a taste of my anger but the animal's one bitter pill I don't want her to have to choke down.

Blue stands firm his eyes locked with mine. He's challenging me? No, his scent doesn't match his posture.

Logan, I hear a voice in my head. You asked my help.

I break gaze with Hank to stare Charles down. His expression is neutral but his blue gray eyes are creased and intense.

"Trust me."

Wendy's eyes flutter and she whines, "Mommy."

Marla breaks away from Scott and forcibly inserts herself between Hank the kid and me.

Instinct's got me sizing them up. Feeling cornered, it's fight or flight. It's the scent of Marla's cloying maternal protectiveness that offers a third choice and Wendy seals it. Pushing me away, reaching to the only protector she's ever known, she whispers, "I want my mom."

"I'm here baby. Everything's going to be ok. He'll never, ever hurt you again," Marla answers in a strained, nurturing voice as she hovers and smoothes Wendy's sweaty, mussed hair. Extreme prejudice lasers from her expression and I'm the bull's eye.

It don't take any more to know I'm done. Surrendering, I shift Wendy to the arms of Hank and the care of her mother.

The crowd filters out. Where to; I don't care. Drained and hurting, I lower myself to the floor.

It's just Susie and me. Hands on my shoulders, she kneads gently. She still smells of confusion but anxiety's given way to relief.

"It ain't what it looks like so don't say it." I sound as beat up as I feel.

"Say what?"

"I told ya so."

"Ok." She settles beside me on the foot worn carpet and squeezes my hand, "Want to talk about it?"

Shit, I hate it when she pulls this. So gentle, understanding and correct. Makes me feel like a scumbag. Fragged in body and spirit, I shake my head no while we sit silent, crossed leg on the floor. The clock marks time with its rhythmic ticking. The only thing louder is the thunder of my heartbeat pounding in my ears, still revved by my healing factor.

"Want to go back to my office and see what Hank and I found?"

"Huh?"

"Wendy's DNA matches."

Aw fuck. Almost forgot about that. With a weary groan I haul my aching body from the floor and commence pacing.

"Logan, are you ok?"

No, I ain't ok. Where my left eye's supposed to be feels like there's ground glass rolling around inside; my charcoaled legs feel like a swarm of fire ants took roost and I just got a major mind fuckover. So, ok? Hell fucking NO!

I shrug my shoulders, "Dunno."

Rolling the fringe of a window drape between my thumb and index finger I admit, "She knows."

"Who knows what?"

"Wendy. She knows I'm her father."

Heaving a sigh, she uses the couch arm to lever herself to stand, "You tell her?"

"Nobody told her."

"Oh. Is that what all that was about?"

"Uh huh." And then some but we ain't going there right now—ever.

"I guess she didn't take it very well."

"No shit."

She wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek against my back, "I'm sorry, Logan."

So am I but I simply grunt, to numb to let myself feel it.

"What about the DNA? Marla provide more clues?"

"Fuck!" I smack my palm against the window pane. The result is a hairline crack in the glass. Oh well; another item on the never ending Mister Fix It list. "No. The question and the answer got torpedoed."

"Oh." She sounds and smells disappointed but it only lasts for a minute or two before she chirps, "Maybe not. You need to see what Hank and I dug up. We weren't quite through when all hell broke loose."

Christ! Next she'll break into a chorus of The Sun Will Be Out Tomorrow.

Pressing my fingers into my throbbing temples, as side effect of Wendy's empathic assault, I'm just about outta give-a-damn. "Can't be any worse. Lead on, darlin'.

xXx

Stanislav Ruchinsky presses the button on his blue fang, "Good evening, Mister Jones. You're reporting in a bit earlier than expected."

"Yeah, well I wanted to let you know there are gaps in your intelligence big enough to drive a lorry through."

"Oh. What might that be?"

"First off, nobody's named names, but I think the target's mum knows they're tagged."

"No need to concern yourself with that detail.

"Right. Well she's not the only one who's wise. There's a bloke and that Harris woman; the one who deep sixed your last extraction effort."

"My time is valuable. Make your point."

"They're all in on the game and Jennings asked 'im to protect the target."

"That's expected and contingencies are in place."

"'Ere's the kicker. The bloke claims to be the targets father…"

"Impossible."

"'E and Harris were reviewing the bloody DNA proof."

A long silence ensues before Ruchinsky demands, "Describe this individual."

"Caucasian. Six two or three; muscular. Fair complexion. Dark brown 'air… 'Ave access to the internet?"

"Of course."

"Log onto any news site. Ya can probably still find the bit. 'Is picture was splashed all over the place New Years Eve. Did ya not see that? The poor sap who got blown off the Brooklyn Bridge?"

"I was otherwise occupied New Years Eve."

"Right. Swanky gala, no doubt. Rubbing elbows with the beautiful people while us paeans toil in the gutter."

"Spare me your tedious prattle. Does this individual have a name?"

"Aye. They call 'im Logan

Another long silence is followed by a clucking sound. "Unbelievable!" is followed by what sounds like a slap on a thigh.

"Don't know if it's significant but this bloke and Harris are probably connected."

"What do you mean?"

"They're real cozy and she's preggers fit to pop any time."

Ruchinsky mutters, "Stryker's daughter and…..The sumabitch is rolling over in his grave." A roar of laughter translates into static in Jones' cell phone. "This is beyond irony. By god, our plans may have just been given the jump shot of the decade."

"'Ow's that?"

"If he's who he appears to be and we bring him in…do you know who this is?"

"Should I?"

"Your being a freelancer, I suppose not. Suffice to say he's the long lost lynch pin to my paymasters entire life's obsession. All right, with that in mind a slight alteration to the plan is in order. Without compromising the original plan, I want you to get close to this Logan. It must be determined with absolute certainty who he is. I want to know everything right down to the brand of toilet paper he uses."

"Right. It's gonna cost you."

"Your preoccupation with finances is rather tiresome. I'll speak to the Director. In the meantime you must exercise extreme caution around Logan. I'll download you a file detailing his capabilities."

"Ruchinsky, if this guy's as dangerous as you're hinting and your director doesn't see fit to meet my fee's, find yourself another mole."

"You shall be compensated in direct proportion to the risk factors and the results you produce. Do you understand?"

xXx

"Close the goddamn door," he grumbles and practically collapses on the couch dominating the center of my waiting room.

I nearly say close it yourself but a quick assessment of his sickly pale complexion says that's not a good idea. "Want to call time out for tonight?"

In obvious pain and pushed to the limit, he grunts and struggles to sit propped on the arm of the couch. "Nah. Wanna get this shit dealt with tonight. Lemme see what ya got."

"If you say so." I jiggle the computer mouse, "Oh fudge!"

"What?"

"Doggone site timed out." I repeat my action on the computer Hank used, "Double fudge."

Sitting ramrod erect, he demands, "Get it back."

"I can't. Hank's got the address and passwords."

He hoists himself up. Crossing the distance between couch and my desk he shuffles like an arthritic old man. "Bright eyes, you gotta give it up for now."

Without a word he commandeers my keyboard and types. The main site reappears and he quickly adds a password. A heavy fist slams down wrecking the keyboard when Password Invalid pops up. "Grrrraaahhfuck! Get Hank down here now."

"Hon, he's tied up with Wendy."

He swings an arm and I shout, "Whoa!" A split second before I think my monitor is going airborne, he yanks back. Arms raised to the ceiling, he bellows, "Fuck it all!"

"Phew!" Slow down heartbeat.

He mumbles, "Sorry, darlin'." Shoulders sagging, he seems to wilt like a drought stricken oak tree.

"O-okay," I stammer. "All isn't lost, you know? I know who one of the matches is."

"Gah!" he cries out and clutches his head.

"Logan?" I'm instantly fawning over him.

He waves me off then eases into the chair, head bowed and palms digging into his forehead. "No pain, no gain," he groans.

"What?"

"Healing factor's doing its thing."

"It hurts?" Duh, stupid question Susan.

"Lil' bit." He's radiating so much body heat from an accelerated healing factor I could use him as a portable space heater.

"What can I do?" I try massaging the back of his head and knotted neck muscles but he flinches away.

After a couple minutes he doesn't look it but sounds stronger. "So, who's the match?"

I spout off what I remember from the website and he simply shrugs; I guess having no clue who Mantis is either.

"Now listen to me, "I demand watching him continue to fade. "Tomorrow's another day. It's late. You look like hell and I bet you feel the same."

He shrugs but the thousand yard stare and slumped posture tells me I'm on track. "Quit Logan." I take him by the hand. "We're going to raid the kitchen; fuel up that healing factor and then tuck in for the night."

He stands, heaving a deep sigh. Wordlessly, he follows. Halfway out, he stops and backtracks. Picking up the phone he leaves a message, "Yo, Hank. Soon as yer done buzz me in my room. It's important."

"Fifty cents says you conk out so hard you'll never hear the call."

"Raise ya a major chore 'round the house I do."

"What kind of _major_ chore?"

He pauses, clearly thinking by the creasing of his good eye. "Build ya that water garden ya've been mooning over."

"Ooh! I'm tempted but what if I lose?"

"Ya promise not to send my shirts off to be starched to death."

"Then who's going to do them?"

He grins and pats me on the top of my head. Could I be so devious as to flip his phone to silent?

xXx

Our phone does buzz but it's not until the sun is streaming through the draperies and it's not Hank. It's Charles reporting Wendy's doing well and resting and requesting we meet in an hour and a half in his office suite.

We both groan but his voice isn't coming from beside me. He's propped up on the easy chair beside the window.

"I didn't even feel you get up the second time," I comment.

We'd settled in but hadn't been asleep more than an hour when he'd awoken in a sweat, his healing leg muscles burning and his head still killing him; severe enough to make him sick to his stomach. So much for fueling his healing factor. His late night snack, forcibly ejected, ended up flushed into the Westchester County sewer system.

"Yeah, the nightmares started coming on. Figured we both do better if I bunked right here."

"Better this morning?"

"Yeah."

The blanket slips away as he stands and stretches. Oh hello! The only thing he's wearing is a spectacular erection.

"Oh my! There's a nekkid man in my room."

"My room darlin' and whatcha gonna do about it?"

"Gee, I don't know."

He motions, "Follow me to shower and I'll show ya." He gyrates those trim hips of his for emphasis. Like I really need the hint!

Trailing behind him I can't help giggling and swatting his backside. "You know what?" I say patting my belly. "There's no way four of us are going to fit in that shower."

He glances over his shoulder then to the shower stall. "Think yer right." Suddenly he growls lustily, scoops me into his arms and deposits me on the bed. Murmuring, "So, we'll clean up later," his lips showering my body with irresistible persuasion.

Kissing, nibbling and teasing a path, he gently anoints both earlobes and expertly traces my collar bone. The sticky sweet secretions from my gravid breasts don't seem to diminish his enthusiasm one iota nor does the twins untimely wiggles and kicks.

"Honing their radar," I tease.

"Izzat what they're doin'?"

My breath catches when he gently parts my legs and settles on his target. I moan and fist the sheets as his lips and tongue make a soft foray. Flicking and swirling, he teases me with soft brushing strokes of his tongue then abandons the motions to push his way deeper. Teasing, prolonging the moment, he probes lightly never settling into a rhythm. My hips rock to meet his soft tongue thrusts. "Don't tease," I moan.

He laughs softly, the vibration sending pulses against aroused flesh. Gently he settles in for the feast drawing my tight kernel between his lips and lashing with firm tongue strokes. Within moments, I feel the familiar tightening, the warmth spreading low in my belly. His mouth's relentless motion drives me to the edge. I cry out his name, surrendering to pure physical joy.

Hot tingles spread down my arms and legs as he angles his body against my curves. He pulls me into his strong arms. Nestling my cheek against his hairy chest, I sigh and tell him I love him.

He kisses the top of my head, "Love you too."

Favors must be returned in equal measures so I nibble his bottom lip and taste myself. I feel him, hot, throbbing and thick pressing against my belly. Slowly, I begin to nibble and suck my way down his torso stopping to hook my tongue around his nipples then trace the line of hair traversing his six pack abs before plunging into his navel. I love the salty taste of him, the musky scent of his arousal. To experience him unguarded, to see and feel him respond to my touch is high octane fuel for my love and desire for him.

Settling between his legs, I coax moans of pleasure with my lips contacting his hypersensitive flesh. Every muscle reacts as I tease him with the same kitten-soft teasing licks he tormented me with.

I take him into my mouth and his thrilled groan sends a bolt of renewed want straight up my spine. He's huge and I struggle to take him deeper. Grasping him with my hand I work him in short tights strokes while I suckle and draw lazy circles with my tongue.

His hips rock; gentle gyrations become insistent thrusts, goose bumps raise up on his buns, all not so subtle signs telling me he's fighting for control.

As much as I savor the taste, the feel of him I long to bring him inside me and as if we had a psychic connection, he groans, "Wanna come home, darlin'."

Merging sideways in a tangle of legs, the short loss of direct stimulation restores his control. He clutches my hips as I welcome him inside. Buried to the hilt, he exhales a satisfied sigh.

Dominant once more, he moves in a steady, measured pace reducing me to a moaning, writhing mess. So lost in the sensation I'm only vaguely aware of his shout and the feel of his release deep inside me.

xXx

Half an hour late, strolling hand in hand, secret grins pasted on our faces, we arrive at the meeting in Charles conference room. I swear I detect a knowing, mischievous smirk on his face.

Hank, leaning an elbow on the table is sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. He glances up and flashes us a brief thin lipped smile, "'Morning."

Marla Jennings is seated at the far end of the oval table. Examining her finger nails, she's obviously uncomfortable.

We ease by her and Logan sniffs making a big to-do parsing scents. And there is such a suffocating aura of tension even I can feel it without juiced senses.

She glares and mutters, "Pig."

Smiling sourly, I squeeze Logan's hand hoping he'll get it and not respond in kind.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for gathering on such short notice. Scott, thank you for delaying your departure. Logan, Susan, so glad you could make it."

While sliding a chair out for me, Logan grunts. Afterglow no doubt ruined by the company, he's got that get-off-my-case scowl creasing his features.

Feeling a touch of warmth in my cheeks that I hope doesn't show, me thinks the boss man is a tad irritated. I really can't blame him since he and Hank probably were up most of the night dealing with Wendy.

Without further comment, Charles begins, "You all must understand that it is not my habit to interfere in your personal lives."

Snorting, Logan rocks his chair back on two legs. "So don't," he replies, not exactly under his breath. I don't have to see Scott's eyes to know he's blasting Logan's attitude with disapproval.

Ignoring both men, Charles continues, "However, when circumstances pose an impact on the Team, I will act to preserve unity and readiness."

That gets their attention.

"I've become aware of information that will affect every one of us in this room and this information indeed does have the potential to adversely impact the Team."

Drumming his fingers on the conference table, Logan demands "Get to the point, Charles."

"Very well. Last evening's events came about through a question Logan posed to Doctor Jennings. The question deserves an answer. Doctor Jennings please be so kind."

With a thump, Logan plants all four chair legs on the floor and leans forward, "Whoa! Hold up Charles." His eyes dart between Hank and Scott. "Just what questions we talking about here?"

Charles doesn't respond verbally but whatever he says meets with a begrudging nod from Logan.

Logan eyes weigh Marla with a critical squint, "Ok, talk."

Her discomfort is plain as she wrings her hands and clears her throat. "You…you asked whether Wendy could have more than the normal two strains of DNA…"

Impatient, he snaps, "I know what I asked."

Under the table I rub my foot against his shin, a secret admonition to give her a chance.

She bites right back, "Don't interrupt me and I'll give you an answer." They engaged in an ocular shooting match before she continues.

"I explained before that Wendy is the products of in-vitro reproductive technology. However, it goes quite a bit further than that. You are aware that the genome of Homo sapiens composed of 23 pairs of chromosomes with a total of approximately 3 billion..".

Logan glazes over, "I ain't in the market for a fucking Ph.D in genetics. Get to the point."

"Fine." She looks on him as one might a person with mental challenges. "Simplified, Replications discovered how to strip the nucleus of an ovum and replace it with another specifically designed nucleus, thus making it possible to alter and enhance mutant capacities."

"This isn't cloning," Logan mutters and goes silent and contemplative. He starts to rub both eyes, but the patch on his left one prevents it. "God damn!" He glares accusatively, "You're talking….mutating a mutant?"

"Yes." Marla is unapologetic.

Logan looks like I feel; like we're both about to be ill. Scott seems uncomfortable as well, intensely studying Marla and twiddling a pen between his fingers. Hank, sitting erect with folded hands resting on the table top, wears an unreadable expression. Charles' posture and expression seems to be a close copy of Hanks.

Logan leans toward Marla, his eyes sharp and questioning, "Something doesn't make sense. If ya got this whiz bang method for making designer mutants what did ya need me for?"

"It was discovered success depended upon an Omega or Alpha healing factor. Considering the limited sources healing factor can be extracted from, spermatozoa yields high levels and for reasons we still don't fully understand it's the only substance that produces viable results."

"Geezus, ya talk like this is still going on."

"I think that's a given," she replies dryly. Almost whimsically, she adds, "Imagine the advances they've made in a decade's time."

"No shit." Logan goes quiet, his dark eyebrows slanted in a troubled frown, "Ya told me why I got to be the lucky guy but how in the hell could ya not wanna know who else went into making the kid?"

Marla looks exasperated, pressing her hands forcefully together in front of her face. "Oh, you just can't seem to get it." Fisting a hand, she gesticulates toward Logan, "I didn't have access to the information from whom the DNA was derived and I really didn't want to know. However, I did know what traits had been synthesized into the ovum because the DNA samples were coded alpha numerically based on….."

"Right," Logan roars. "Fuckin' designator numbers. I had one, remember? What's Wendy's? A combination of me and the other ones?"

Marla's head dips and her voice breaks, "Yes,"

Logan laughs bitterly. "Fucking A! And the kid got a mindful of this crap?"

"Thanks to you," Marla lambastes.

Charles interrupts politely, "This is an issue best handled through a different venue."

Ignoring Charles, Logan snaps,"Hell if you're gonna pin it all on me. If ya'd …."

"Enough!" Charles commands and in a stern tone rebukes, "For Wendy's sake the two of you must come to an understanding and a workable strategy concerning further disclosures and her care but this is neither the time nor the place."

Marla seems pleased by Charles intervention but a rumble comes from my husband and it's not his stomach growling for a meal. The fuck off and die expression further clarifies his sentiments.

Determined to tightly control the course of the meeting, Charles inquires, "Logan, has Doctor Jennings sufficiently answered your questions regarding Wendy's origins."

Cocking his head to one side, brows knit together across the bridge of his nose, he grinds, "Yeah."

"Very well." Maneuvering his chair back from the table, he wheels to Marla and offers his hand, "Thank you Doctor. Jennings. You may be excused now."

Rejecting Charles courtesy with a loud, "Harrumph," she turns on her heel and stalks away. Suddenly, she whips around and hisses, "How dare you!"

"Madam," Charles counters. "I dare nothing. You are projecting with such vigor it simply cannot be missed."

Telepathic bickering? Pretty much. If the airhead kept her mouth shut nobody would know.

"Since you prefer open communication," Charles continues, "I shall express a concern and an opinion that is likely to be shared among everyone in this room."

"I don't wish to hear your concerns or opinions either telepathically or verbally."

"And that is," he barrels ahead despite her protest, "you'd be committing a grievous misstep removing yourself and the child from the protection of this institute."

Logan's head snaps up; his expression is dark but his eyes blaze as he warns, "Don't even think about it, woman."

Marla looks like the cat that swallowed a canary. Red in the face, she turns with a jerk and flounces from the room. A costly crystal picture frame topples off a credenza next to the exit from the concussion of the door she slams.

Scott reacts, scrambling to gather up the broken glass, "Should I go after her?"

Charles answers, "No. Give her time…."

Logan, fast on his feet, interrupts, "I got it."

"Uh huh, that's going fix it," Scott complains as Logan disappears from our sight.

Interceding again, Charles speaks calmly, "Scott, believe me, this isn't your battle. Please have a seat."

Through the open door, we hear Marla's shrill, furious voice with only a muffled word or two of Logan's.

"Is that a threat?..."

"You have no say in our affairs…."

"Biology does not make a father; you of all people have a keen understanding…"

Oh, that wicked bitch! As if Logan chose illegitimacy.

Logan explodes, "Shut up, Marla," before his words become inaudible again.

A sudden, sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh makes me jump in my seat. Did he smack her one? No scream, so I guess not.

Silence ensues for a moment before we hear a set of heels click rapidly down the hall. A second later, Logan strolls back into the conference room. Visible to everyone is a rapidly fading welt; part of a handprint visible where his sideburns don't grow.

As he takes the seat next to me I can't resist feathering my fingertips against his cheek. I am going to make mincemeat out of that woman.

He grasps my hand, kisses it and murmurs, "Relax darlin'. It's ok."

Hands steepled at chest level, Charles clears his throat. "We must commence with the second portion of our agenda." He pauses, wait for our rapt attention. "What I am now compelled to reveal is of an extremely delicate and personal nature to us all. Because of that I shall conduct the discussion in two segments. Hank, you may be excused but stay close, please."

"Right. Is my lab too far?"

"Not at all. Scott, please excuse us until I summons you."

Scott looks hurt and vexed, "Professor?"

"Trust me, please. You shall not be deleted from the loop in any way that pertains to your or the teams' interests.

Loathing any sort of obfuscation, Logan reacts, "This is stupid. Just what the fuck is going on?"

"Logan, please control yourself. My reason for my method will become clear once you and Susan have heard what I have to say."

Scott departs muttering his displeasure leaving me with knot of tension in my chest and Logan looking intensely frustrated.

"Susan, before we begin I ask you not to hold any ill will against Hank who is source of the information I'm about to share."

Now I'm thoroughly confused. "What the heck are we talking about?"

"Wendy's parentage."

Oh, that's old news. Relieved, I reply, "We figured out half; 'er one third if you want precision, when Hank's computer froze. And then that whole mess started…."

"Yes, I understand but I must be honest. Hank's computer did not freeze up.

"Are you saying he…..he concealed something from us?"

"No. His intention was to keep the information to himself until he could speak to the two of you privately. However, while he and I were treating Wendy, he projected unusually high levels of anxiety. In a private moment I questioned him."

Logan finally adds his two cents worth, "Ya know what, Charles? Kiss n' tell around this joint is nothing new. Give it up, will ya?"

"Very well." Charles drums his fingers on the armrest of his wheelchair. Obviously stalling, he rubs a hand over his scalp while we stare at him. "You both must understand that Henry and I rechecked the data several times. Once certain, we spent most of last night deliberating over it."

I'm anxious yet intrigued. No, make that rear- end clenched freaked out!

If Logan were a volcano, steam would be shooting from his ears. Ejecting himself from the seat, he erupts, "For Christ sake! How fucking hard can it be? Yer acting like it's gonna be…." Logan stops dead in his tracks. His eyes go wide and he leans both arms on the table. "No. No…. fucking… way…."

"No way what?" I shout unnecessarily. I try throttling back, "Both of you; no telepathy. Please."

My eyes dart a mile a second between both men. I don't need telepathy to sense a missile is about to come crashing down on our heads.

Intense, pained steel blue eyes meet and lock with burning, insolent brown eyes. Charles straightens himself in his wheelchair and fires the projectile.

"Yes Logan. Wendy's second DNA match belonged to Jean."

xXx

A/N: Didja see this coming? What's the fallout? Is Wendy irreparably harmed? How is Marla going to exact her revenge? Who's the mole? So many things happening in our hero's life. Stay tuned.

Thanks to my best [only beta; you kick my fanny appropriately. Thanks to my reviewers; all y'all keep me going. MLC


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Silence, so pervasive I think I heard a cockroach sneeze, falls upon the room. Like the brown creepy-crawlie, if I could skitter under a baseboard I would.

Logan stares at the floor. "Right," he mutters. A tight inverted V forms across the bridge of his nose and fans out in parallel lines streaking along his forehead. His lips form a narrow crooked line as he chews on the inside of one cheek. Another moment passes in agonizing stillness before he explodes, "That's fucking bullshit!"

Ranting, "There is no way in hell. She never had anything to do with the program," he's a ball of frenetic energy. "Hell, fifteen years ago she was just a kid herself….."

There's an almost imperceptible note of pleading in his voice, "Hank's gotta be wrong."

"I assure you he is not," Charles replies his expression controlled despite the passion in his eyes.

Logan turns away, scrubbing his face with his hands, "Jeezus fucking Christ!" Rocking back on his heels, he lets out a long audible breath asking, "How?"

"It's no secret blood and tissues samples are routinely…."

"Rhetorical question, Charles," Logan's voice is laced with acid. "Bottom line is somebody got her goods."

"Highly likely."

"From where, though?" I wonder out loud over Logan's muttered vows of retribution against the perpetrators.

"Several possibilities," Charles replies. "As a teenager she had an emergency appendectomy. Of course the hospital typed her blood. There's no way to know whether an actual specimen was kept though if it had been screened for mutant gene markers it most assuredly was."

Concurring with Charles I add, "Safe bet."

He nods once and continues, "And genetic piracy seems to be flourishing despite so- called safeguards."

"Got that right and with Nazi bastards like…Stry…like her father." Logan glances uneasily at me, no doubt sensing my dismay.

He can't miss the dirty look I'm beaming at the middle of his forehead. Not that I disagree. My father committed heinous crimes against mankind; against his own son. But what happened to our agreement to refrain from public comment where the misdeeds of our parents were concerned?

His voice trips, "Sorry darlin'."

I nod but I'm thinking apology not accepted as he plows ahead.

"With watchdogs like that what do ya expect?"

Charles replies, "Indeed." There's an odd pause and I get the feeling he's sent secret communication to Logan.

He scrubs the back of his neck releasing a loud, bitter sounding laugh. "And I thought things couldn't get any more fucked up." He strides to a side table topped by a crystal decanter. Uncapping it, he asks, "Ya mind, Charles?"

Charles shakes his head at Logan's gesture to share, "No thank you. I must brief Scott shortly."

"Like hell!" The bourbon slops out of the tumbler as he pours. "This stays right here."

"Logan, put yourself in Scott's place. Effects to the team aside, I can't in good conscience conceal this from him."

"Don't sling that shit on me. Ya didn't seem to lose any sleep over not telling me right off the bat who Susie was."

"I concealed nothing concerning Susan. All you had to do was ask and a complete dossier would have been immediately provided. As I recall, you didn't ask."

Clamping his mouth shut, Logan blasts Charles with a murderous scowl then tosses back a second shot.

Charles turns his focus to me, "Do you wish to raise any concerns?"

"A couple dozen come to mind but they're between me and my husband. One thing though…"

"Go ahead."

"It strikes me that Scott knowing about Wendy carrying Jeans DNA might actually be detrimental to everyone involved."

"I strongly believe disclosure is the lesser of two evils."

"What's that Charles; the difference between eatin' shit or steppin' in it?" Logan grumbles.

Ignoring Logan, Charles explains, "Trust me, he will discover the fact sooner or later. Considering we have committed to protecting the girl and her mother, it's best he come to terms with it now."

Logan snarks, "Always running the show."

Charles turns on Logan, "Jean was like a daughter to me. Even I can't be completely objective knowing Jean is a part of Wendy. I think of Scott as a son and regard you…."

"Stow the one big happy family routine."

"Charles, can I ask something else?" I say hoping to derail my husband from further snide remarks.

"Of course."

"Who are you more worried about? Scott or Logan?"

Logan doesn't wait to hear Charles' answer. Waiving him off, he grabs the decanter and makes for the exit leading outside, "He's afraid of sonny boy going off the deep end again."

"Both," I mutter answering my own question but am not heard over the slamming of the door. Making my own way out to retrieve a coat, I tell Charles, "I'm going after him."

**xXx**

Here she comes, just like I expect. Crunching across snow above her ankles, her breath forms a cloud in the cold air.

"No, I don't," I answer pre-empting her usual question.

"Oh. Want me to go away?"

"Suit yourself," I say with a cigar clenched between my teeth.

"Ok," she whispers.

Even through a thick blue cloud of tobacco smoke I can smell the tears and hurt. God, I am a fucking asshole! A little over an hour ago we were as intimate as two people can be and now I'm smacking her down and locking her out like she's the enemy.

"Don't go," say holding out my hand offering apology.

She's gone defensive with her arms folded across her chest.

"Please," I add gently stroking her cheek with my knuckles.

She nods; a sad smile plays on her lips. She wraps her arm around my waist and I drape mine across her shoulder. Standing silent, we soak up a small measure of peace.

The early afternoon sunshine casts a glare on snow covered rolling hills. I can hear the whine of a jet engine on approach to LaGuardia, the muffled sounds of kids' voices inside the mansion. Cardinals and Blue Jays decorate the drab grove of trees at the lawns edge. A deep conifer forest in the great white north it ain't but it'll do to clear the decks just enough.

Of the possibilities how ironic Wendy ends up with the DNA she's got. Fate's a real joker and I'm the butt.

Charles is dead right. This has got fuck over potential written all over it. It's gonna affect Summers and it's gotta hurt.

I kinda feel for him.

Gotta trust Susie but we need to talk about this sooner or later. Like me, she a bundle of raw nerves and I can't help wondering why she ain't blown a gasket yet. She's got a right.

Want to or not, I—we got another kid to cope with. Don't matter if she was cooked up in a test tube or brought about through the good ol' horizontal bop.

Hang tight, bub. She will and it'll fucking be something I never see coming. Worse, the flood gates'll bust. Blow my ass off the Brooklyn Bridge, pump me up with molten metal; just don't torture me with a weeping dame--a pregnant weeping dame. Times like this I wish I was a telepath just to get a handle on who or what all her spit and vinegar's aimed at.

She clears her throat yanking me from my thoughts, "That crack about my father was hitting below the belt, don't you think?"

Shit! Her sights're aimed at me. "Said I was sorry." Fuck! That sounds lame and she's not buying it. "I meant it."

Now drop it darlin'.

Though she doesn't make a peep I feel the tension release in her body. "I know," her voice quivers.

Uh oh! Here comes the flood. I circle her in a full arm hug thinking don't make this worse by opening up your pie hole, bub. Problem is with her raging hormones I won't get it right no matter which way I go.

"I'm sorry," she snuffles against my chest.

Lifting her chin with my thumb, "Sssh," I soothe. The winter blue sky is nothing compared to glycerin bathed baby blues that twist my attitude a one-eighty. "There's nothing to be sorry about."

"Every thing just…..just sucks."

Can't help chuckling, "Yeah darlin', pretty much," and press a kiss on her forehead.

Holding tight, we go silent again. Then she sniffs, wipes her eyes on her sleeve and says, "I'm being such a weenie. What do you say we just go home and start fresh tomorrow?"

"I'd say that's a damn good idea."

But not yet. What I really wanna do; need to do is finish this cigar and bourbon in peace.

She's trembling and it's not just from the tears. Her hands are like popsicles in mine. "You go on inside."

She looks at me with unspoken questions. Her scent tells me she's having a tough time.

"It's okay." I peck her on the lips, "Won't be long."

We separate and she takes a few steps. Glancing over her shoulder anxious eyes beckon me, "Promise?"

"Promise."

xXx

Cigar done and stubbed in a snow bank, decanter drained, I'm standing here in the cold feeling beat up, wrung out and hung over the line. Guess that's what a couple straight weeks of bullshit being shoved down your throat does. A bumper sticker I've seen sums it up real good: If it ain't one mother, it's another.

Makes me nostalgic for the road. Free, easy, no ties. Bug out when the bullshit got deep.

Right! The road had its glory but who the hell am I kidding? Never sure of the next paying gig. Camping in the elements is over rated, especially in winter. Done one lot lizard ya've done 'em all.

"Come on mutt," I say to the stray slobbering on my pants leg. He ambled by a few minutes after Susie went inside.

He goes all frenetic wiggling fur ball chasing a stick I keep tossing for him as we weave through the topiary garden and 'Ro's dormant rose arbors. My ears pick up what sounds like a string of firecrackers and so does mutt, from the way his ears perk up.

Boom! Sounds like a pipe bomb coming from the direction of the rifle range. A loose jog becomes and haul-ass sprint. What the fuck are those kids up to?

Scrambling through knee deep drifted snow I get to the top of a ridge. It ain't any kids. Couple hundred feet below is Summers and he's going to town blowing targets out of the sky with those eye cannons of his.

Guess Charles had the talk.

Watching him for a spell coupla things come to mind. One, he's so locked up with what he's doing he's got no clue I'm nearby. If I were an enemy he'd be fucked, if not dead by now. Two, he's a crack shot and finally, he's got a damn good idea blowing off steam this way.

"Stay," I command muttley and he does!

Silently, I make my way to the rifle shed a few yards behind the range. Punching a combination I unlock the door. Some shed it is, too. Solar heated and electrified, over head lights come on as the door swings inward. We use a specially modified section of the range for training but its second purpose is recreational. Charles hosts deep pocket mucky-mucks a couple times a year. He's got as keen an eye for sport rifles as he does for that classic car collection of his.

I select a handsomely checkered, deeply polished, customized Browning, shrug on a pocketed vest and stuff it with shells. Bag the ear protectors.

Summers makes it real clear I'm not expected or wanted. The missed target and a string of slurs is a strong clue. So's the sour stench of disgust and him snarling, "This is a closed session."

"Uh huh," I reply before shouldering the gun. "Pull," I bark and pop two clay pigeons to smithereens. "That's why I'm here and you're over there."

He stands there, arms crossed, grinding his jaw, watching me like a vulture while I squeeze off a few more rounds.

"So, you're the father of Jean's child. Satisfied now?"

I shrug, "It's not like I had a choice," and change out empty shells with fresh ones.

"Tell me you wouldn't have if you did."

"Are you fucking kidding me? My feeling for Jean weren't a state secret. Neither were hers; she turned me down flat."

Closing the shotgun, I assume the position. "Pull!"

Squeeze once, twice; thinking knock her up? Oh, hell no!

Miss and a hit. Brilliant! Know better than to think when ya pull the trigger, I berate myself silently.

What the hell can I say? I did pursue the woman he was engaged to. Now through a bizarre twist of fate I'm the father of her kid.

"Listen Scott, for what it's worth, I'm sorry things turned out this way."

"Got that right. You're the sorriest s.o.b. I've ever known."

Summers turns toward the range. He raises his visor, shouts, "Pull," and half a dozen clays spit from the launcher in rapid succession.

Pow, pow, pow! Son of gun nails 'em all. "Nice!"

"Take your fucking praise and apology," he smacks a fist against his bent elbow, "and stick it."

Summers' ain't playing with a full deck and maybe I ain't either. Nothing to gain by trumping his ass. "Ok, you're pissed, I get that. But you've got a mad on for the wrong guy."

"Oh! Who then Logan? Forget it. You couldn't say anything to make a difference so don't try."

"I came here to shoot clay not shit." To emphasize I blast a couple more clays into the Promised Land.

"Right." He obliterates another half dozen. "You think I'm dumb as you look?"

"The way you're acting right now, I'd say so, bub."

He clams up, his face red as boiled ham and lets loose on the range. Blasting wild and furious, down goes a launcher and reducing a tree beyond to kindling. Fucker's as lethal with the beams as I am with the claws.

He turns and I flinch inside thinking I'm his next target.

"You make me sick," he grinds between a locked jaw. "Knowingly and willingly engaging in eugenics."

"Get this Summers, there's no willingly about it." He's about to cross a line in the sand and I don't smooth out the grit in my voice.

"There never is, is there? As long as you can claim no memory then there's no culpability."

It takes everything I have not to scrape that holier than thou look off his pretty boy puss. "You calling me a liar?"

"Yeah Logan and not just a liar; you're a coward. Hiding behind that excuse for every rotten thing you've done. You're not fit to lick Jean's boots let alone raise her daughter."

Throttle back Wolverine! This is exactly what cue ball meant. Digging deep for an ounce of civility, I reply, "Technically, Wendy isn't Jean's kid and even if she was, fucked up as it sounds _I'm_the kid's father and you don't get a vote."

"You a father? Oh, that's rich. Where the hell do you get…"

I cut him short," I don't get off anywhere. You heard what Jennings had to say same as me."

"Sure Logan; a low down immoral bastard who fucks anything with a cunt. Prime genetic stock, huh? That little girl should be mine?"

The fool don't know when to quit. To keep from pounding him to paste I load up and splat a couple more pigeons.

"Jeezus, Scott! Listen to yourself! You're not making sense. I didn't sleep with Jean; not last year, not fifteen years ago."

"Don't try to weasel out, Logan. From the day Storm and I saved your sorry ass from Sabertooth you've been ripping my life to hell..."

Summers has lost the bubble.

"…And damn you to hell," his voice hits a pitch an adult male shouldn't, "Jean died as a direct result of you."

"And I'll volunteer for one of many scourgings in hell for it." My turn for a place in the boy's choir, "But Scott ya gotta let it go."

His breath hitches. Adrenalin surges through his bloodstream. Tense as a bowstring, he detonates, "I'll let it go after I've pulped your body from one end of this campus to the other. Then we'll see how the fishes in the pond like adamantium toothpicks."

"Uh huh. You and what army, bub?"

Voom!

There's a flash. The atmosphere splits wide open. Thunder roars in my ears. I duck, dodge and roll as a concussive eye beam punches through the air like a supersonic fist.

The aftershock rattles the gray matter inside my skull. My slowly healing left eye feels like it's being shoved through the back of my head.

Rraarrgghh!"

Snickt!

Sonofabitch!. I'm gonna gut him. I'm gonna rip his stupid head off and shove it up his ass.

I'm on him before he gets a chance to blast my ass a second time.

Fuck!

Breathing hard, I manage to control my anger before the claws turn him into sushi. "I'm gonna be real generous here and assume you made a mistake. Don't make a liar outta me or it's the last mistake you'll ever make."

"Fuck you, Logan. You might run me through but at this range even your adamantium won't keep you from a world of hurt."

"You're right. You'll be dead and I'll be back in the infirmary." Retracting the claws and backing up a step I'm still posed to inflict damage but I'm gonna give him a chance to save face. "And that's going to solve it, right?"

He drops his hand from the visor. Seething with hot, slow anger, his muscles remain tense and ready as mine.

"No," he replies, his voice cold and ruthless. But this'll help." Summers rears back, launches a fist to my blind side.

I dodge it but, "Oooofff!" The wind's knocked out of my lungs

Shocked to hell and doubled over, I'm gonna put this idiot into a hurt hole so deep he'll never crawl out-- once I can breathe and choke back the bourbon I recently consumed from turning the snow amber colored.

Crack! I see stars as the motherfucker thrusts his knee upwards splatting my nose.

Pop! "Aaah, uuhh! F-u-u-ck," he wheezes, stumbles and grabs his kneecap.

With no wind, my ah fuck dribbles out with a stream of blood and snot.

Stupid, stupid fuck! I saw this coming in his body language; smelled the chemical warnings. My reflexes and muscles must still be fucked up from the explosion; it's the only explanation.

"Rrraarrghh! Enough of this shit!" explodes from my chest more a growl than human speech. Positioned for a perfect head butt that'd shatter his skull, fuck only knows why I pull back from turning his lights out once and for all.

Before he can say what the fuck, I've got him arm locked. Payback time, junior! Wrenching his arms and flipping him over my shoulder there's a satisfying crack as his shoulder pops out of its socket. His scream can probably be heard clear to Manhattan.

Pinning the twit into submission his face is red as a sunburned pig's ass. With one hand smashing his visor against his eyes, the flesh on his forehead and cheeks whitens from the pressure. He'll have bruises worth bragging over tomorrow.

Tears leak out from the sides of his visor. His face is screwed up in agony. His heart's pounding against his sternum forcing his breath out in gasps and tortured grunts.

"Had enough?" I growl in his face.

His response is a nearly imperceptible nod. The adrenalin high is over and he's dumping altitude fast.

It's a good thing cuz I don't get anything from pounding the snot outta him. It's too damn easy.

My mama didn't raise no fool so I keep him locked down, "Here me now and believe it, Summers. You got righteous anger and hatred but I ain't the cocksucker you oughta be aiming for."

Guess he don't agree cuz he puts on that ass cramp expression and exhales a skeptical snort.

A kick of fresh adrenalin juices him up; forcing me to redouble the grip I've got on him. "Pull your head out of your ass and take a look at the big picture. All that piss and vinegar's a good thing and I need it."

He unclenches and for the first time I think he might be getting it.

"Help me take down the bastards who are responsible for fucking Jean and Wendy and the rest of our kind over." And read between the lines. I can't—won't admit being at a disadvantage; even a temporary one.

Bingo. I hit the right buttons. The fire in his belly cools. All I sense is overriding pain, regrets and deep despair. "Yeah," he replies, his voice a rusty groan.

He's just a screwed up dick head, not my enemy so I let up. Truthfully, him hooking up with my sis doesn't set right in my mind. Not because it's my sister but Summers' reaction to this DNA thing is a damn big clue that he ain't completely over Jean.

Join the club, bub.

Offering a hoist off the ground, he gives me the brush off. Don't blame him since I just cleaned the floor with his pride. Don't need to shove the mop up his ass.

Unless he asks for it.

"I think you broke my shoulder," he grunts cradling his arm.

"Could've if I wanted."

"What stopped you?"

Cuz I feel for ya but I can't tell ya. "Ya quit acting like a stupid fuck."

"You're all heart, Logan," he snaps then puts on the fearless leader mask. "I'm expected in Alberta. Have a full strategy briefing ready when I get back."

Boy, oh boy! That mean I get to play with the holo-map?

Aye, aye captain dick wad. "That's an affirmative."

**xXx**

Where the hell is he? He said he'd be right there.

I've just finished scanning e-mail and phone messages and now I'm drumming my finger tips on the glass paned door overlooking the lawn. There are oily smudges obscuring my view. No big deal; nothing but snow to look at.

I'm sick of snow. I'm sick of cold. I'm sick of issues. Come to think of it; I'm sick of everything.

I'm in a bitchy mood.

I'm beyond bitchy. I can't decide whether to scream or cry. Maybe I should do both. Better yet; can I kill somebody? I've got an A-number- one candidate.

Damn that bitch! She slid one right under my nose. I don't know whose ass VanKessel kissed, but before I left on vacation I know she didn't have the votes. Somehow in ten days time she got them and now Westchester Hospital is following the pack: Triage and Transfer mutants!

Excuse me!

We're doctors. We're supposed to heal people regardless of race and circumstance.

Where are these people supposed to go?

Oh, Logan where are you when I need you? You promised you wouldn't be long.

Who's that limping across the far yard? Scott! What's his problem? Stepping outside I holler, "Yoo-hoo! Seen my wayward spouse?"

"No," he shouts back.

He gets closer and I notice it's not a limp so much as really babying his arm. His hair, normally perfect, is all over the place. His coat's all askew and the back is soaked. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," he says through clenched teeth.

"Baloney! Come here."

"I slipped on an ice patch is all," he offers, avoiding eye contact.

I don't quite believe him and reply, "Some slip," expecting he'll catch the hint. "Get in here and let me take a look. Broken?"

"Don't think so."

Ushering him to an examining room, from behind I immediately notice one shoulder blade protruding at an odd angle from the other.

"Let me help you with your coat." He grimaces and stifles a grunt shucking it off and I notice he can't raise the arm either.

"Where's the pain?"

"Here mostly," he gestures with his good arm. "Here too. Radiates across my back."

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad?'

"About a seven if I don't move."

"Numbness? Tingling in your hands or fingers?"

"Mmmm, not really."

"That's good but you know what?"

He stares vacantly across the room hardly nodding.

"We need to go down stairs. This is MRI territory and probably a job for Hank. Lil' ol' me doesn't have the upper body strength to fix adult joints and bones."

"Huh."

"Best case scenario you've dislocated your shoulder. Worst case, it's a fractured clavicle."

"Shit."

"Uh, huh. C'mon Cap'n Scotty. Faster we get you diagnosed and treated the faster you can get on your way."

I trail along with him and when we get to the elevator door he stops me, "I'm good from here."

"Sure?"

He flashes me a pained half grin, "Sure. And thanks."

I push the down button for him, "You're welcome."

Just as the door slides closed I feel a chilly draft at my back. "It's about time," I snark without even looking. There's only one person that use that door in and out of my office.

Turning around, it's who I think it is and he's got that dog with him. I'm so not in the mood.

Spreading his hand regretfully, he shrugs, "Sorry." He sounds funny, stopped up; nasal congestion kind of funny.

They're both wet, dirty and Logan is----bloody?

No, no, no, no. One more thing and… "Aarrgghh! What is all over your shirt?"

Moving in closer, my suspicion is confirmed, "That _is_ blood! Oh no. Don't tell me! No, do tell me."

"Nothing to tell, darlin'." He crosses his arms as if to dare pursuit of the question.

"Don't darlin' me mister. Tell me; is it possible, even remotely so, that Scott's shoulder and the blood on your shirt are related in some far, out-of-this-world way?"

"Umm. What'd he say?"

"That he slipped on ice."

He lounges casually against the wall and nods, "Ok."

I toss up my arms, "Oh that's it!" Then cutting a palm across my forehead grind out, "I've had it up to here. One lies and now the other swears to it."

Crossing my arms over my belly, I jut one foot forward tapping on the wooden floor, "An injury like he has is not consistent with slipping on ice." I point to punctuate every word, " Now… you're… going… to tell… me… what… the…hell's… going… on."

A muscle twitches in his jaw as he mimics, "No… I'm… not.".

"I beg your pardon!"

"It's between me and Scott and it's over and done with."

This lame between us guys bull! I'll try another tack."What did you do to that poor guy? I mean, I think you broke his collar bone."

"Aw fuck that!" he booms sweeping his arms in an arc. Thrusting his thumb against his chest, "What did I do? Why's that always the first question?"

His turn to get in my face, "How about what did_ he_ do to deserve it?"

I flinch inwardly but stand my ground, "He's almost family! What could he do to deserve to have his arm practically torn off?"

Logan glares defiantly but remains silent.

Twirling my hair into a pony tail, I'm exasperated. "Honestly Logan, must violence always be your first response?"

He stiffens, "_My_ first response? Listen up princess; you weren't there so drop it. Now."

"I will not until you talk to me." Lord! I know I sound like some old nagging hag but tough toe nails.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and lowers his voice, "Look Susie, it's something he had-- we both had to work through."

I sense his turmoil and moderate my tone, "Wendy?"

"In part and…'

"Jean," I finish gently.

"Uh huh."

"Oh gosh! I'm a schmuck." I should've expected that.

"The blood on your shirt; it's not his is it?"

"Nope. Bastard nailed me a good 'un. Busted my nose."

He's fishing for sympathy but I'm not biting, "Busted shoulder for a busted nose? Isn't that a bit much?"

His face hard and resentful, "Ya had to be there."

"Well I wasn't. Goddammit Logan! Why must I always hafta drag it out of you?"

"What the fuck more do ya want?" he yells and slams a fist into palm." I told ya what went down."

"There's a ton of stuff you're leaving out."

"It ain't important." Raking his fingers through his hair, he sounds weary, "C'mon Susie. There's nothing to be gained going here. Let's get going."

I'm being petty but crossing my arms, I cock my head and declare, "I'm going home but unless you come clean you can just stay right here."

"Like hell I am!" he booms. Too rough, his hand clamps down on my shoulder, "Now get your shit and let's go."

I push back, "Who in the hell do you think you are?"

The anger between us crackles and I think we both recognize the danger. He steps back, creating a buffer and heaves a deep breath, "Jeezus, woman! What the fuck's got into ya?"

"You! This place! Canada! Everything!" I scream at the top of my lungs. "Do you realize in the last month it's been…..everything…..has just been……miserable? Ever since…since…that child came into our lives."

His mirthful snort is like a cold glass of water thrown in my face.

"There's nothing funny about it."

"Nope, it ain't funny. Just ironic," he adds matter of factly.

His shift in attitude infuriates me further. "How?"

There's a protracted pause as his eyes track along the ceiling. Then his gaze settles back on me, "Umm….who rescued the kid and brought her here?"

"Oooohhh!" I grab a funky shaped ceramic paper weight, one that Travis had crafted in kindergarten, and fling it straight at him.

"Whoa darlin'!" Logan catches it and safely deposits it out of reach.

Completely out of control, I'm just about to grab for something else when I find myself wrapped in a bear hug. I struggle and push against him, "Get off me. Lemme go."

Does he let go? Of course not. Instead he rocks me back and forth while I become a human fountain.

"Sshh…."I feel tender fingers glide through my hair. "C'mon baby…."

"Let it out…." Warm, strong hands smooth up and own my back.

I'm blubbering, "I can't handle it anymore

He presses sweet kisses in my hair, "It's gonna be okay…"

"Can't we just have….normal…..some peace?"

"Sure…It's just a rough patch darlin'."

"I know but…you don't understand."

"I understand you're really pissed at something."

"No. No, I'm not."

He cups my chin gently, "Look at me and say that." His eyes are seeking and caring and it sets me off on another sob fest.

"What is it? C'mon, you can tell me."

"Oohh, it' not you---well in a way it is—but not really."

"Can't fix it if ya don't tell me."

My sad chuckle sounds like a strangled canary, "You can't fix this. The hospital is adopting a T and T policy."

"Huh?"

"They're going hard line with the MRA."

It takes him a minute shifting to the gear matching mine. "Oh right."

This time he laughs outright. "That's what this is about?"

Suddenly I'm feeling extraordinarily juvenile and self-absorbed. "Uh huh," I whimper.

"Aw shit!" He leads me to the couch, pulls me down and holds me close.

"Pretty stupid, huh?"

Another chuckle and then he answers, "Nah. Just never figured on a screw ball like that. What about all that committee work ya did?"

"I dunno know. I can't think straight anymore."

"Then don't think." He gets up, gathers my coat and drapes it over my shoulders.

"I've been thinking about this since before getting my ass blown off New Years Eve. We're going home, putting a fire in the fireplace, I'm gonna cook us something good and were gonna cozy up and not move til that medical leave I'm on expires."

"That sounds so good, Bright eyes."

Allowing him to lead me by the hand, we sneak out by way of the patio doors, cut up the side yard and slip into the garage. It would be the perfect getaway—except---we've got a tail. A large fury one. "What up with this?"

Logan grins, "Think I've been adopted."

"No. Just no. Please no."

"Aw c'mon Susie. He can't hang out here all the time."

"Seems to be doing ok so far."

"I heard Charles is allergic to dogs."

"That's digging deep," and he knows it from the look on his face.

"A dog is a huge responsibility; one that I don't care to put the energy or time into." I bump him with my belly for emphasis. "And they smell and the leave huge bombs in my yard." Counter that, dude

"I got it covered. I'll take him back and forth with me. You'll never even know he's around."

"My cats…." This excuse won't go far.

"Yeah….well…."

Oh! Score a point for a measure of diplomacy.

"He'll be a great watch dog."

"We don't need a watch dog."

"All right. You got all the reasons why not. But…I like him and …he seems to like us. I ain't gonna say pretty please."

"You're thinking it, aren't you?"

"I'm having you tested for telepathy."

"No telepathy involved. The only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys and the aggravation they cause."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a highly qualified maybe."

"Ok. I'll run with that. I promise, ya won't be sorry and…and I'll start building a dog house this afternoon."

"Make it double sized so when he does make the inevitable mess or misbehavior you'll be comfy too."

"That's cold darlin', real cold."

I flash him an evil grin as I lift the rear hatch on the SUV and admit the dog into my car and my life. "I don't recall this in the pre-nup."

He closes the passenger door for me, "Paragraph three hundred eight two, subsection B…"

"Can it, bub," I tease as he settles into the drivers' side.

"Hey, you know I'm joking; right?" I say a little way down the road.

He ski's his finger down the tip of my nose. "Yep. But not about keeping things cleaned up."

"You're very perceptive."

"Glad somebody thinks so."

"I've had my share of dogs growing up."

"Me too."

"You remember?"

"Some. Elizabeth wasn't too keen on house dogs but I remember the hounds that my grandfather and John kept." He cops a fake aristocratic accent, "Fox hunting you know? Think Tom had a couple fighting dogs."

"Ew! Like pit bulls?"

"No. Rotwielers or something."

"That's terrible!"

"Yeah. Not my idea of a good time."

"Allen and I had the greatest Irish Setter; Molly was her name. Got her when the boys were little and after the divorce we split custody. So she went back and forth with the boys. We were absolutely heartbroken when she passed."

"How long ago?"

"Oh golly. Maybe a year before we met."

"See then. Matt's gonna be cool with it."

"Logan, you can quit with the campaign. You won when I let that slobbery brute in my car. Do we have a name picked out yet?"

"Nothin' yet. Got any ideas?"

"Oh no. You're not dragging me into this any more than I am already. Your dog; you name it. By the way, we better stop off and pick up a trough and something to fill it. Small wading pool ought to be the right size for a water bowl."

He laughs, "He's not that big."

"Is too. I've had smaller ponies."

xXx

Bowls, bedding, an oversized bright red bandana, leash and collar later, 'our' dog is outfitted for the Harris-Logan household. And yes; something fun, a chance for easy banter and teasing did us both a lot of good.

I talked Logan into a pre-fab fiberglass doggie Quonset hut citing a lack of time to build a dog house from scratch. He resisted but when I pointed out I needed him to start on the nursery, stat, he surrendered.

We garnered a lot of attention at the pet warehouse. Newfies aren't terribly common nor is one as well behaved as this one. Without a single command he heeled perfectly at Logan's side and charmed the diapers off a toddler or two shopping with their moms.

Finally, on the last leg home with said doggie hut tied to the roof rack, we're getting a lot of funny looks from the other drivers. Ah well, his truck would've been the smart solution but neither of felt like going home, getting it and then going out again.

Several blocks from the house we both notice heavy smoke hanging low in the sky. It stinks and burns our throats. "Gosh, that's a lot of smoke. Kinda close to the neighborhood."

Logan's non-committal grunt doesn't do much to stimulate conversation.

Driving a few blocks closer, it's easier to zero in just where it's coming from. "Honey, look at that. I think it's our neighborhood!"

"I'm thinkin' you're right." he agrees and hits the accelerator. "Old fire though."

"What? How can you tell?"

"A raging, new fire'd be billowing and black."

"Oh. Don't tell me; you've done firefighting."

"Couple big ones in the Pacific Northwest."

So if it's an old fire how come he cuts the yellow light short and speeds the last block to our street?

Slowing, we cruise down the street. It's blocked halfway down the hill by police cruisers and barricades as well as rubbernecking neighbors.

"Jeezus H. Christ!" Logan mutters and hits the breaks

For a moment I'm struck blind, deaf and mute. The swirling smoke and water obscure one of my personal worst nightmares playing out in real time right in front of me. Slowly, slowly, the scene comes into a hazy, surreal focus.

At the end of the street, three large pumper trucks pour water onto two structures. One, just a shell of charred brick and kindling; the other, for what we can see, seems okay except for scorched brick and hefty landscaping damage.

"Oh no!" I gasp.

"Oh my God!" I wail and suddenly feel faint.

Laying my head against Logan's shoulder I feel the knotted muscles just under the surface of his flesh. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel but his shoulders hunch forward and he shudders. His silent admission of anguish, defeat erodes my confidence, shatters my spirit.

Closing my eyes against the disaster, a sensation of intense sickness and desolation sweeps through me. Feeling acutely alive yet chronically drugged. I feel hot tears well up and dribble down my cheeks. I grit my teeth, choke on my breath, all futile attempts to imprison it. Overtaken, I surrender to deep, racking sobs.

**xXx**

**A/N: Cue the scary, tragic music! One of these days I've got to give them a break. Well, not today. **

**Readers, I'm stumped for the dogs name. I'll consider your suggestions and if I pick yours, I'll credit you in the next chapter. Stats on the dog: Dark brown Newfoundland breed. If you aren't familiar with them, they're huge and furry; somewhat slobbery. They're expressive and loyal. Good with children. Mostly docile but protective of their owners. Used as rescue dogs until they age and then get lazy.**

**The usual disclaimer and the usual (though never routine) thanks to my beta. Also, thanks to Joe for a couple of lines of dialog. Credit for the phrase 'horizontal bop' goes to Bob Seager. All us 'old farts' know the song. Somehow I think Logan would be a big fan of Bob Seager. MLC  
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	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

They surround the car. For a split second primitive instincts squeezes out rationality. Feeling trapped, high wattage rage courses through my arms, priming muscle and metal. Control, Wolverine! This isn't the enemy.

Rolling the window down, I ask, "What the hell happened?"

"Don't really know," answers Rex Livingston who lives with his huge family two doors down. "About an hour ago there were two explosions; boom, ka-boom! One right after the other."

Someone else, can't recall the name, gestures his arms to the sky, "Happened so fast. I was shoveling snow from the driveway. Damn near knocked me off my feet."

"I don't believe this," Susie whimpers into my shoulder.

"Anybody hurt?"

"No, thank God," replies Livingston. "And as far as we know nobody's home at the Creeds."

I nod as Susie replies, "Minor miracle."

Paranoia ratchets up as I spot a pair of cops elbowing through the crowd. One of the neighbors murmurs through my open window, "Your guys turn for the inquisition. These two got a severe Lone Ranger and Tonto complex going on."

I snicker, "Heigh-ho, Silver."

One cop takes my side of the car, sizing me up; the other's trained on Susie. "You're Doctor and Mrs. Harris?" quizzes the cop closest to me.

Susie's raises her head from my shoulder, the smallest crooked smirk plays across her mouth. "Try Doctor Harris," she points a thumb at herself. "And Mister Logan."

He goes red faced, "Sorry, ma'am."

The other cop cuts in, "Would you both mind sitting in the patrol car? We need information."

I look him straight in the eye to convey how much I do mind sitting in a cop car, "I'm good right here."

They glare back as Susie nods in compliance with their demands. Even though I sense they're cold and tired, I ain't giving an inch. It's a struggle to keep animosity out of my voice, "Whadaya need to know?"

"Where have you and Doctor Harris been?"

I point to the doghouse attached to the roof rack.

"In the last twenty four hours, sir?"

Susie's catches on and pipes up, "Why is that important?"

"We need to investigate every detail, ma'am, until we rule out accident or otherwise."

Susie's eyes grow wide, "Otherwise?"

She's shocked. I ain't. "We were at Xavier's School over there on Graymalkin Lane."

"What's your business there?"

"We both work there," Susie replies, rummages through her purse and hands over her business card.

No outward reaction from either cop? I suck in a deep breath. Ah yeah, there it is; surprise, curiosity, a twinge of anxiety pouring from the one closest to me.

Suspicion and disgust oozes from the other and he snipes, "Do you have your registration cards?"

"I beg your pardon," Susie ices him.

"Xavier's is that mutant school. You two work there. Law says you're supposed to be registered."

Susie fires back, "Officer, I fail to see what this line of questioning has to do with the issues at hand."

The other cop zings a shut your face glare at his partner and cuts in with a conciliatory tone, "Do you folks know the whereabouts of your neighbors?"

I answer, "No."

"Can you give us any information about their habits, family in the area, how to contact them?"

Can't tell ya. Probably none and wouldn't tell ya if I did are my unspoken answers in that order. I know one of ya is just trying to do a job but I gave my word to Creed, just like he did to me, not to talk. And with Himmler-junior on the case we're done.

Susie's more forthcoming spilling minor details that anybody in the neighborhood could've given up if tuned into the usual chit-chat over the backyard fences.

"Do either of you know what line of work the Creeds are in?"

"Linda's a physical therapist but I don't think she's working right now," Susie offers and then looks to me to fill in the remaining blank.

My answer is a cold, straight- ahead stare. These fuckin' kindergarten cops haven't run Creeds name through their database? Bet they'd get off knowing I got a murder rap.

Figuring out me and Susie ain't gonna be much help, they hand us their cards with a less than friendly reminder to contact them if we think of anything that might be helpful.

An attractive, familiar brunette makes her way to Susie's side of the car. "Hey you two," offers Leora Weinberg, neighbor and wife of Susie's obstetrician. She recoils, her gaze locking on my pirate patch. But she's a lady through and through and continues with only a mild hitch in her voice, "It's obviously going to be a while before you can get to your house. I've got hot soup and sandwiches." She gives me a friendly wink, "The beverage fridge is stocked to over flowing."

"Sounds good," we answer together.

There's a crowd inside Weinberg's McMansion which shouldn't surprise me because the neighborhood is pretty tight. I can take the partying, gossiping, neighborly stuff in small doses but I'm not like these people. I don't want to be like them even if I could be.

They start in with tentative inquiries about my eye patch. Downplaying it 'til they push harder, I lie. Well, stretch the truth saying I got debris in it.

Sympathetic and satisfied, they dive into amateurish speculation over the fire. Trying to draw me in I play dumb and swill down the beer handed to me when I walked in. The usual explanations of gas leaks or some other flammable are offered. Somebody says the cops mentioned a meth lab and that gets a mix of reactions including a laugh from me. But the voice of paranoia inside is hammering me to get down the street and check things out for myself.

I know it's not going to be a meth lab for reasons the neighbors don't need to hear but I'm not naïve enough to believe the gas leak theory-not the accidental kind. I check on Susie, who's sitting amongst a gaggle of women in the kitchen, and tell her I'm gonna find out when we can get back home.

There's yellow tape blocking off the perimeter and cops loitering in and outside of their cars. Luckily, I don't see the anti-mutant Gestapo.

I ease up to a pair leaning against their patrol car, "So, what do ya guys know so far?"

"Who are you, sir?"

"The lucky one."

That gets me strange looks.

"Mine's the one still standing. The wife wants to know when it's safe to come back."

Their guard comes down. An Officer Williams, by his badge, replies, "At this point very little we can discuss, sir. Witnesses report hearing two nearly simultaneous explosions. We've got no reports of anyone smelling gas, no reports suspicious activity…"

"So yer tellin' me ya don't know squat."

"Correct. Once we get it cooled down the fire marshal can begin investigating."

I nod. "Listen bub---Officer Williams, mind if I get closer?"

"Stay to this side of the engines," Williams warns.

That's a given. Blistering heat rolls off the site making it impossible without protective gear or a healing factor to get too close. Despite the distance between, it's a miracle both houses on either side of Creeds didn't go up. There are two huge pumpers spraying a wall of water on ours and the other to keep it from happening.

The smoke and chemical effluent burns my throat and nose. My good eye waters cutting down on visual acuity. It know it's gonna bite like a bitch but I take a deliberate and deep breath through my nose. All I'm getting is diesel fumes from the trucks.

Finding an upwind to the trucks and down wind to the fire takes a bit of doing, namely slipping undetected between a house down the block and then through the back yards. Any air movement is going toward the street making it easier to separate what's what in the chaotic swirl of odors. Wood, insulation, household chemicals, you name it but the sinus ripping tang of propane is notably absent; probably shut off at the street main by the fire company.

Damn!

There it is.

I'll never forget the stink of this stuff. Not your common variety for sure. Nope. This is special stuff; an accelerant designed to leave no discernable burn patterns, detectable residue or odor. Somebody with the skills can make it look like anything they want. And unless things have radically changed there's only one place I know to get it.

Another scent registers in my brain making me reel and stagger backwards. Oh, Jeezus! I gag and fight bitter gorge rising from my stomach. Leaning over a stone wall at the property's edge, it's a close contest but I keep down the sandwich and beer.

Fuck, fuck! Who bought it? Creed? No, Sabertooth's a survivor—just like me. His wife?

Fuck it all to hell! This could be our house; my wife! I feel the burn. My claws instinctively engage, reacting to an intense mix of rage and revulsion.

Shifting winds swamp me in the stench. I grit my teeth and clench my eyes against nausea and a horrific premonition: The charred, shapeless corpse of my wife. This time I do lose my lunch.

xxx

Surveying the damage that I've already prepared her for Susie sighs deeply. "So much for our quiet evening at home together."

"Not tonight," I can't hide the disappointment and gloom in my voice. I want; need home just as much as she does but I can't risk it. Fires produce toxic shit that lingers for days and neither of us want to risk exposing the twins. Then there's the circumstances surrounding the fire. 'Til I figure out how everything fits together there's only a few options I've got open to keep her safe; Xavier's being practical, for now.

"Babe, gotta board up these windows and rent a dryer fan. Get our stuff together and I'll drop ya back on my way?"

"Mmm. Before you do that can you haul out the shop vac for me? I'll tackle the water."

"Nah darlin'. I got it. Don't want you getting in this mess at least 'til it's not smoldering and I can clean up some."

"You're right." She bows her head and her shoulder slump, "Thank you," comes out in a whisper of relief. "I don't think I've got what it takes right now." She turns and trudges in slow motion through the kitchen, across the family room and down the short hall leading to our bedroom. I hear her muttering to herself, complaining about the mess and inconvenience.

xxx

No surprise, I get back to campus late. Susie's in my old suite curled up in her favorite granny- flannel nightgown with the lights on low and the TV news droning quietly.

"Hey darlin'."

"Hey yourself." She sounds beyond weary and hopeless.

I go to the bedside and rub her shoulders, "You ok, darlin'?"

She nods slowly, "I will be."

Stripping off my clothes I've got half an ear on the TV: _Late this afternoon, in the Stoneleigh neighborhood of North Salem, tragedy struck. A massive explosion followed by a devastating fire gutted one home and damaged two others. At least one person is reported dead, though at press time the identity of the victim has not been released. Preliminary reports indicate that a Methamphetamine lab may have been the cause of the blast. We'll have more updates as they become available._

Susie scoots to the end of the bed, "One person dead! Oh my God! Logan, I thought the Creeds were out of town."

"Wasn't them."

"Huh? How do you know?"

Shaking my head, she doesn't need to know the gory details.

"Logan! Don't do that."

"Sue, let's not go there."

"Did you see anything?"

"Yeah," I sigh suddenly feeling as weary as she looks. "They pulled a body out. Too small to be Creed and from what I could tell it wasn't female."

She sighs, "You don't think Creed and someone else was cooking up meth?"

"Fuck, no! Not in a billion years."

"Wonder what then?"

Fibbing, "Dunno," I step into the shower.

"How bad was it at the house?" she asks a few minutes later.

Through showering and toweled dry, I slide into bed next to her, "Could've been a helluva lot worse. Kinda chilly cleaning up the water, ya know?"

"I can definitely tell," she says, her hand resting on my thigh. "Even with a hot shower you still feel chilled."

I drape one arm over her shoulder and slip one hand down the front of her nightgown, "Well hell, darlin', c'mere and warm me up."

"Yaah!" she jerks away. "Hands to yourself, bub."

"I labor all evening long and this is the thanks I get?"

"Looks like it. Just call me an ungrateful wench."

I buried my face into her soft hair breathing in her sweetness. Instead I get a snoot full of fatigue and tension. I pull back, "What's wrong?"

She sighs, "Would you be totally put out if I take a rain check for tonight?"

Tenderly cupping her chin, I see the weariness in her eyes. Thank god I ain't sensing any pain. "Whatever you need," I murmur and kiss the tip of her nose.

She cuddles beside me, whispers she loves me and in no time is snoring like a band saw.

I'm dog tired and still hurtin' some from the explosion's aftermath but my brain won't shut off. Propped against the headboard fiddling with strands of her hair I'm lining up a bunch of dots in my mind. First Ruchinsky contacting Creed a couple weeks back. Then, going after the kid; make that kids according to Marla's story. Now, Creed's place torched. Connected? Does shit stink?

Don't want to but I'm gonna hafta track Creed down. The cocksucker is supposed to keep me and Charles in the loop. If he's welshed I'll make him believe the bad ol' days with Weapon Plus were a Sunday school picnic.

I can't get the vision of her burned body out of my mind and I'm not being paranoid thinking Susie won't be safe back home. I'll bet serious bucks that Creed didn't send Linda up to her folks just for a friendly visit. If the dots connect like I know they're gonna she's squirreled away someplace safe from Ruchinsky and anybody else who's on Diebel's payroll.

I can feel it; there's a freight train barreling down the tracks and it's aiming to run me and everything I care about straight to hell.

Well, fuck that.

xxx

Guess I slept but too soon the eastern sky outside the bedroom window's turning pink and gold as the sun starts its slow climb from the horizon. Prying myself from Susie's clutch, I'm gonna brew up a big pot of coffee and the get started on repairs back at the house.

Down the backstairs leading to the kitchen, somebody's already beat me to the coffee. Its rich aroma combined with something sweet baking in the oven makes my stomach rumble.

"Don't Charles ever give you a day off?" I tease Mrs. Burns as she sets a tray of piping hot muffins on the granite countertop.

"Wouldn't know what to do with a day off. Have a seat; I need my favorite taste tester."

I wave her off. "Thanks but I gotta get goin' Got a shi—butt load of work to do."

"Better if you fuel up first. Give me just a moment and I'll send you on with a thermos." She holds up two huge blueberry muffins, "And a couple of these."

Mrs. Burns' homemade muffins? Hot coffee to go? Don't need to think real hard on this decision. "If I wasn't already hitched lady, I'd marry ya for your cookin'."

She laughs warmly, "You'd be standing in a long line."

xxx

Susie pulls into the drive a couple hours later and gets a kiss and a scolding from me, "What the hell ya doin' here?"

"I live here." She bends over as much as her expanding belly allows and dotes on dog breath who's wiggling all over himself and licking her fingers. "Oohh hello you great big ol' Yogi Bear."

What the fuck? "Yogi Bear?"

She giggles, "Yeah. Saw it on the TV this morning and I thought perfect name. He just looks like Yogi Bear?"

"What is a Yogi Bear?"

"Cartoon character. You know; Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo? They live in Jellystone Park."

I shake my head. Got no clue what she's blathering about. If it's lame as I suspect no dog o'mine's gonna be called Yogi Bear. And Boo-Boo? Stuff that! "Thought ya weren't gonna name him."

"I'm not, officially. Just a suggestion, my love."

"Right. How 'bout plain ol' Bear?"

"Common."

"Fuck sake, darlin'. He's a mutt."

"Ok, ok. But I think…..Oh never mind. Bear's good."

I shoot her a better-believe-it eyebrow then steer the conversation serious, "Listen Sue, thought we agreed ya shouldn't be here 'til I'm sure this place is cleaned up and safe."

"We did and I figure one more night on campus. But I've got things I can do around here while you're doing the repairs."

"I don't want ya doing any thing heavy."

Ignoring me, she surveys the garage, "Wow! You're really going to town. I'm impressed."

"Better be, "I say flexing my biceps. "The plan is to get it all ripped out and wallboarded before tonight."

"Cool! But don't over do it."

"Nah, I'm good." To convince her, I hoist a stack of soggy debris and haul it out to the driveway.

She sized me up closely, "Your eye? The headache?"

"No worries." It's a white lie. It still feels like there's rocks and ground glass where my eyeball should be. At least the ache inside my head where my optic nerves connect is just an ignorable annoyance. Except when it feels like somebody's poking me in the brain with a blunted stiletto.

"I'll do the finish work in the laundry tomorrow. At least enough so you can use it. The garage ain't that critical."

"Ok," she replies but I don't think she's totally convinced. "What can I whip up for breakfast?"

Been a while since I finished off Mrs. Burns' muffins so I'm feeling peckish, "What do we have?"

"Pancakes. And I think I've got bacon in the freezer; provided it's not trashed and I can navigate my way over to it."

"Hang on." The distance between her and the freezer is littered with debris and my heavy boots crunching over it is safer than her shoes. "One rasher of bacon. Catch!"

She snags my easy toss, "Make it two if we have it."

"Cooking for an army, babe?"

She winks, "Army of one."

She watches me for a few minutes slicing through another section of wall. "Now I know why you downplayed help from the neighbors."

I nod and keep hacking. "Left 'em to help the Loudon's on the other side. Besides,Vic and Tin Man are coming over later."

"His name is Peter and I'm glad you mentioned that now. Think I best stir up a big pot of something then. One more mission to the freezer, Bright Eyes?"

"High maintenance, ain't ya sweetheart."

"Always. How about a package of that venison?"

For a pot of venison stew she can be as high maintenance as she wants to be.

She snags another toss and goes to the kitchen muttering how we're supposed to be having down time. Yeah, well downtime is great and I don't appreciate a project like this but me sitting on my ass for a couple days? Don't think so.

The aroma of frying bacon makes my belly rumble. Time for a break. Nab another mug of coffee and filch a strip or two of pork.

"Boots off and brush the dust off before you come in here," she scolds just as I'm about to cross the threshold between the laundry and kitchen.

"Picky, ain't ya."

Brandishing a spatula, she grins wickedly, "Have a seat; first batch is ready."

She places a maple syrup smothered stack of pancakes and about half the rasher of bacon at my place at the breakfast bar and about a third as much at her place. She smells of weary resignation and between bites she sighs.

After the third sigh, I'm thinking I better find out what's on her mind, "What?"

"Oh, I don't know."

I keep shoving food in my face, not particularly in the mood for deep analysis of anything; at least not that I wanna share.

She stirs a puddle of syrup with her finger then licks it, "I feel so...helpless…out of control. You know?"

Not really but I nod, mouth too full to answer.

She nibbles a piece of bacon. "I guess I really shouldn't complain. It could have been so much worse."

"Uh huh."

"What did you really find poking around next door?"

"Other than what I told ya last night, not much." Glad ya can't smell the scent of a lie.

"Wonder where the Creeds are?"

I shrug and swig my coffee. That's next on my list to find out.

She sighs again, "I'm surprised we weren't bombarded by Wendy or Marla last night. Wonder how they're doing?"

There's another topic that sets my hair on fire, "No news is good news."

"I guess so."

She looks me over and up and down, her woe-be-gone scent transforming into a mix of curiosity and anxiety, "Logan, I need to ask you about something."

Ah crap! I ain't gonna like this, "Sure."

"Yesterday when Hank and I were going through one of the DNA databases I found something about you."

She's just full of fun stuff to dig up,"Yeah?"

She's wound up tighter than a roll of duct tape as an explanation of what she read comes tumbling from her lips. "Is it true?"

"Prob'ly."

She gasps, "I . . . I just don't believe it. You . . . you couldn't do something like that."

I touch her lips with my finger, nodding slowly.

She brushes it away, "No, not voluntarily."

"That….and worse."

She whips her head from side to side, disbelief pinching her pretty face and pouring out of her like sweat, "You couldn't wipe out an entire family!"

"Listen to me," I command, gently taking her hands in mine, "I've seen what you're talking about . . . and it probably doesn't make a hoot of a difference . . . but . . . that family wasn't the kind yer thinkin' of. Think mafia, Japanese style."

"You had to be brainwashed."

"It's possible but… brainwashed or not, I did kill."

"Well yes, I know that. In combat. People don't get medals for bravery knitting booties for the enemy."

Can't help chuckling at that mental image, "Susie, you read part of my service record. You know what I did."

"Of course. Counter Intelligence."

I snort and shake my head, "Black ops counter-intel. I did the dirty work no one else would or could."

"But Logan…"

"No buts. My job was to kill even before they fucked me over at Alkali Lake.

"In the line of duty, self defense."

I wanna yell get a clue, darlin'! _**"**_Do you know what a berserker rage is?"

"I know it's an old Norse term; something about fierce Viking warriors. But that's ridiculous. It's mythology."

I can't hold back a sarcastic laugh, "Remember the Alkali Lake discs? Me hacking up those guards?"

"I try not to."

"It's an example of what happens, what I'm capable of."

"Defense mechanism against extreme physical and emotional trauma…."

No patience for a string of psycho babble, I clamp my hand over her mouth, "True then but not always. If the other guards hadn't put me down I'd have slaughtered every last one of 'em."

"You don't know that and even if so you'd be completely justified."

How the fuck do I make her understand I slaughtered every living thing down to lab mice busting out of that place? No, it's something I better let lie if I got any brains.

"Great chow," I say and deliver a quick peck on her forehead. "Gotta get back to work if we don't wanna be looking at holes in the walls tonight."

There's a frustrated expression on her face as she sucks in her breath. Her lips move to speak but she stops, darts her eyes and exhales, "Hoo-kay!"

xxx

I'm a fuckin' coward and a fraud. She needs to know. Needs to face it; face me as I was. Hell, as I am.

The slap in the face truth is I don't wanna face the consequences. When she finally realizes what I really am she'll discard me like used toilet paper.

Just thinkin' about it stirs up nightmares. Though not as often anymore there are times when my dreams still warp into nightmares. Lurid memories of torture coil inside my subconscious, a poisonous beast that springs from the darkness and devours me.

And flashbacks, like right now. That video of her father's: An endless re-run inside my head that I can't switch off. Flickering images of terror, pain, death and destruction scored as permanently in my mind as Nightcrawler's carvings on his skin.

"Grraarrrrgh!" I exhale a muted growl and rip into another soggy portion of sheetrock while chaotic screams of dying men and women and the banshee wail of sirens echo through my mind.

The smell of Susie in the kitchen searing meat mixed with the acrid reek of smoke blackened sheetrock infiltrates my nose and stirs something inside me. My stomach lurches as I'm plunged into the past. The meat is me, my flesh and hair flash fried after taking out Alkali Lake's main power conduit with my bare claws.

Blood red auxiliary lighting turns the augmentation chamber into a vision of hell. Add severed limbs, the stench of blood and spilled guts; ya get hell on earth.

Stimulated by the scent of fear and pain rising from the pulsing heap of dead and dying I release a wild, feral howl.

More soldiers burst in, swarming ferocious insects. Machine guns stutter. Bullets whiz past like comets in the red gloom. Cordite scalds the back of my throat and eyes. My flesh goes numb where bullets rip into me turning my body into one massive wound.

Bullets ricochet, deflected by adamantium. One unlucky bastard gets a complimentary face lift. Another's head splits open like a rotten watermelon.

A bullet rips through my cheek. Meeting adamantium tooth prosthetics, it shatters into a hundred fragments. Hurts like a motherfucker. Evening the score I thrust a single claw straight into the bastard's heart and spit blood and metal into his death mask expression.

Relentlessly, I plow through them severing limbs, slashing throats, ripping bellies. The savage creature possessing me relishes vile oozing entrails, slick blood, screams of agony. It will not be sated without the satisfying feel of claws ripping flesh, cracking bone. There is no stopping; not 'til the very last one is dead and the spillway flows freely with blood.

I sense frantic movement above in the observation platform. It's them: Diebel, Stryker and Ruchinsky. I know the names now but that day their names were wiped clean from my mind.

Lust for revenge drives me forward like a dervish. Taking the stairs four, five and a time I'm stopped dead by a reinforced door. No matter. Metal and concrete shriek as my claws render them useless.

I'm confronted with a phalanx of soldiers and more blazing but ultimately useless firepower. Fueled with adrenalin and pain I roar and charge into the fray, my claws slashing a wide arc. In the time it takes me to reduce them to a silent heap of bloody, raw meat my primary prey escapes.

I howl my frustration.

Bloodlust explodes in my in my brain, consuming me in incandescent hate, scourging the last vestiges of humanity in my soul. Possessed by the berserker, I'm engulfed in murderous rage and it's exhilarating, addictive, orgasmic.

Plunging deep into the bowels of the compound I wreak bloody carnage every step of the way. The air is thick with fear and death. Men, fighting for their lives, assault me, desperate to repel the monster cutting through their ranks.

Ahh-ooo-gah! Ahh-ooo-gah! Harsh; urgent this latest siren drowns out the first. What the fuck?

"Flood warning! Flood warning! All personnel will evacuate the base immediately! This is not a drill," booms a frantic voice.

I feel a vibration coming through the floor. Damp, heavy air blows cold through the passageways. Soon the entire underground complex will flood, not with blood but with tons and tons of water and the compartments, much like a submarines, will lock down automatically sealing everything tighter than a sarcophagus.

Fear strikes like a rattlesnake, its venom searing through my mind. The antidote is my rage. I will not be trapped in a watery coffin. I will not die. Not here.

Fast rising water, cold enough to numb flesh turns hallways into sluices. People are panicking, shouting, their boots pounding liquid staccato echoes against the cement floor. The solid ka-chunk of slamming compartment doors sound the base's death knell.

The scent of prey, an irresistible magnet, over rides my fear. With a roar, I sprint through the passages. Slipping on blood and gore I plow ahead, vaulting myself up ladders as fast my arms take me.

I run into a squad of armored and armed goons heading for the exit. They keep moving, firing over their shoulders, their gun muzzles spitting death my way as they run for their lives.

A few stupid fucks form up execution style and fire point blank. Immune to the pain, I charge through the hail of lead, my claws scythes that cut through flesh as if it was wheat.

An eerie stillness descends like the eye of a hurricane. The moans of the mortally wounded rise like the stink of shit from piles of humanity scattered around me.

Something splashes at my feet and then another. Bullets dropping from my body like heavy raindrops into a blood red sea. And beneath it all the giant water pumps beat like a heart as they turn corridors into arteries filled with ice water.

The berserker calms and reason crawls its way back into my riotous mind.

They sought to form me into the perfect weapon.

They did.

They thought to control me.

They thought wrong

The adrenalin surf I'm riding recedes like the tide before a tsunami. In its wake comes pain. Pulsing and pounding to the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat. Every breath is torture as blood bubbles from gaping holes in my chest. Fever hot as a blast furnace rages as my healing factor struggles to seal tattered flesh and knit organs back together.

I look down at myself, flesh turned into a ghoulish canvas painted with gushing blood and sweat—with claws!

That's when I see them clearly for the first time. Six impossible spikes protruding from my hands; sheathed in clotting blood and gore. Gaping in total incomprehension and shock the awful truth explodes in my mind.

I am a monster!

A thing to be hated and feared.

An inhuman, vengeful killing machine controlled by no one.

They win!

Daggers of self loathing rend and rip into my psyche. My soul shrivels. My mind fractures and separates as the last of my sanity crumbles and scatters like desert sand.

And I still hear it. The scream. Mine-- unearthly, agonizing, desolate, inconsolable reverberating through the flooding passage.

That's all there is. No, not quite. I remember a door—opening a door and being blinded by glistening white. Then, nothing until I woke up naked and frostbit in a frozen pool of my own blood. No idea who I was. No memory of what had been done to me; of slaughtering every living thing in my path. Hell, I didn't even remember the compound just a few miles away. I became the animal Stryker said that I am and the only thing I knew; felt instinctively, was that like any wild creature I had to get away from everything tainted by man.

xxx

"Logan!" Susie's panicked voice wrenches me free of this flashback. "What's wrong?"

Snickt! My claws slide into their housing.

"Huh?"

Holy shit! A minute ago I was tearing out sheetrock. Now I'm crouched on the concrete floor like a terrified dog. "Nothin'," I reply, my voice a rough whisper.

Too quick she's by my side and catches on that my hands are shaking. "Nothing my butt! You screamed like—like I don't know what and you're white as a ghost."

Feel like a spook too.

"I knew you'd over do it," she scolds and massages my knuckles with her soft fingers. "Healing factor or not, tough guy, don't ya think it takes more than a day or two to get over being blown up?"

I nod, happy to go with her ready excuse rather than thrashing out what the real deal is. "Gotta get this done. I'll be ok." Standing, I stretch and crack my joints to convince her.

"Sure ya will." She grabs my hand, "C'mon inside and take a break until Vic and the rest of them get here."

She settles me in a seat at the breakfast bar and deposits a bottle of water in my hands. Next, she's got that damn stethoscope of hers hooked to her ears.

"Lift up," she commands, referring to my sweatshirt.

"Knock it off. I'm ok."

She huffs and reaches for my wrist, "Like it or not I'm taking your pulse."

"What's that gonna prove?"

"Hush." Silently, she counts off from her wristwatch. "Nothing really, I suppose. Makes me feel better though."

"Darlin', I'm ok. Really."

"Liar! Something happened out there. Now why don't you give me a hint?"

"Dammit Susan! What part of ok don't ya get?"

"If your definition of ok is huddled on the garage floor and shaking like a leaf then none of it."

She ain't gonna give up and I don't wanna go into it—admit a lame flashback still gets to me. Best thing to do is clam up no matter how pissed it's gonna make her. Gulping down half the bottle of water, I let my eyes rove anywhere but her.

She gets me but she ain't ready to quit. Instead, she tries a different tactic. Flitting to the refrigerator she pulls out an arm full and commences making a gargantuan BLT, heavy on the bacon and mayo.

"All right," she says taking the seat next to me. "If you don't want to talk it's ok. Sorry for pushing."

Here we go. Guilt trip city. I ain't playing, babe. "Good sandwich."

Yep, there it is. A little halo of irritation.

"'Tay-ta chips?" she asks as the phone rings. She's closer so I don't bother trying to answer.

"'Lo," she chirps.

I over hear, _hey mom_. Can't tell which kid it is.

"Hey Travis. Thought you were on your way back to school?"

_Yeah, well, I'm supposed to be but Dad's unavailable._

"Unavailable? What's that supposed to mean?"

_It's AFU. Uh, sorry. He and Christine had a fight. He left and now I can't get him on his cell. So, I need you to take me back to school. And I gotta muster at eighteen hundred hours._

Way to go Allen. I owe ya for getting Susie off my back.

Covering the mouthpiece, she rolls her eyes to the ceiling and mutters a couple of rarely indulged four letter words aimed at her ex-husbands lack of manhood. "All right kiddo, I'll be there quick as I can. Are you at the house?"

_Uh huh. Hey mom, don't hang up, Matt needs ya._

Matt gets on and it's clear he's in a state of mild hysterics. At more than one point Susie holds the phone away from her ear to preserve her eardrums.

"Matthew! Listen to me. Calm down. Take a deep breath. I'll be there in a few minutes. You can ride with Travis up to West Point and we'll get this straightened out…Yes, of course you can stay with me…..You know he doesn't mind….. He cares about both of you guys….. Matt, if you want me to get there you hafta let me off this phone and get into the car……I love you too, son. Everything's going to be ok"

Every so gently she cradles the phone back on the charger. Her complexion is puce with rage. "Gaaaahhhhh!" She snatches the head of lettuce and hurls it into the sink. "I will castrate that son of a bitch. Did you hear?"

"Yep. Want me to go with ya?"

"You know I do but I'm thinking it's best if…."

"Ya handle it ya'self," I finish her sentence.

Her mouth curves into a sad smile, "Uh huh. It's kind of my problem. Beside with carpet and upholstery cleaners coming I need you here to supervise."

"Your problems are my problems, darlin'. I'm good for what ever ya need."

She kisses me on the cheek, "Wish you reciprocated in that department."

Damn! One thing's for certain. She is a persistent wench.

Heading for the coat closet she rattles off instructions for the stew she's got going in the slow cooker, reminds me not to forget about _my_ dog and promises she'll be back as soon as she can. "By the way," she adds before stepping outside the front door, "you don't mind Matthew staying until this is settled, do you?"

My answer is a thumbs up. What answer could it be? Even if I did object it's her kid and her house. The real question is: After the weird shit that went down in Canada can the kid put up with me full time?

"Love you," she says and is gone before hearing me reply, "back at ya."

xxx

"Oh ho my friend, doubles!" Hank gloats over the dice roll. "You really are off your game this evening."

A grunt and a shrug is my response.

He_** is**_ whipping my ass; has been for a couple of rounds of Ace-Deuce backgammon. My losses might have something to do with the fact I've got a load of shit on my mind and have the headache from hell. Guess the eyeball's still got a lotta healing to go.

'Course maybe the headache's from talking to my mother. Pain in the head, neck or ass; all three-- that's what Elizabeth Howlett does for me. Finally managed to get her on the phone to offer condolences over Robert. True to form or whacked out with grief, and I don't give a shit which; the bitch went off on how it's all my fault and what a worthless bum I am. I clicked the phone off in mid-rant. Wonder how long it took her to figure it out?

West Point's only about an hour from here but I know Sue won't be back any time soon. She won't turn Travis over until one minute to muster and then I figure she'll take her good ol' time with Matt. Can't say I'm not curious about the crisis du jour but sure am glad it ain't of my doing this time.

Duded up in a tux, Charles and his lady friend, Genevieve make an appearance. "Gentlemen, we're off to the city."

"Right," I grunt.

Of course Hank makes a big hoo-hah over anything in a skirt. "My dear," he stands, takes her hand and gushes, "You look ravishing."

He's right, though. She's no spring chicken but she knows how to present herself and it's easy to tell she's was a helluva a looker in her younger days.

Charles takes Hanks predictable behavior around the ladies in stride, "Things seem in good order. Vic and Electra have the watch tonight. Henry, I've released Wendy back into the care of her mother. At the moment they both seem quite comfortable in the fourth floor apartment. It would be helpful if you checked on them before departing this evening."

"Consider it done."

"Logan, I concur with your decision to occupy the boathouse for the foreseeable future. I'll have a crew there tomorrow to make it ready."

"Hey, ya don't need to do that. I asked for it so it my problem."

"You'll have your hands full convincing your wife, so I'll be blunt; shut your mouth and accept the assistance."

That his way of saying stuff it? Guess so. "Uh, thanks."

"You're welcome and good evening gentlemen." Charles whirs out with Genevieve lilting, "Bonsoir," and quick stepping it beside his wheelchair.

"Avoir une bonne, darlin '," I call after Gen. Hank ain't the only one who appreciates a nice skirt.

Couple of minutes after Charles and Gen depart, Dog-breath, heretofore named Bear according to my wife, who's been crashed at my feet the whole evening, perks his ears. He hears tires crunch in the driveway that runs just past the staff lounge before I do. Glancing out the bay window, it's Susie's SUV.

"I know you two have significant issues to discuss so I'll bid you adieu," Hank declares. Making his way out, he suggests, "Rematch tomorrow? While you're basking on the hyperbaric chamber?"

"Rematch, yes. Hyperbaric chamber? Fuck no, Blue," I grumble, making my way to the main entrance.

"We'll discuss it." Making his way down the hall toward another exit, he calls, "Pleasant evening, my friend."

Like hell we will are my thoughts as I open the front door for Susie and Matt. She rates a soft peck on the lips and I take her coat, "Hey darlin'."

"Mwah" she smooches in return.

Matt's outwardly calm but there's a whole lotta hurt and uncertainty pouring off him. What the fuck did that so- called father of his put him through?

Ain't exactly sure how to relate to the kid. Should I hug him? A slap on the back? Opting for no contact I'll let him make the first move. "Hey kid, glad you're here."

He nods and murmurs, "Thanks." There's awkward silence as he bobbles back and forth on his feet and fidgets with the strap to his back pack.

"C'mon son," Susie comes to the rescue. "Let's get you settled and we'll talk more later."

Half and hour later she joins me in my old suite. "So, what's the deal?" I ask as she settles cross- legged at my feet.

"He never learns," she sighs.

"Sit here," I gesture to the beat up recliner I'm hogging.

"No thanks, my back hurts from being in the car so long." She stretches and wiggles her backside. "This feels perfect."

I shrug, "Who never learns what?"

"Allen. He did it to me and now he's done it to Christine."

Massaging the small of her back, I suggest, "Playin' around?"

"Yep. And the boys got to witness the entire showdown."

I wince, acutely aware of what the boys might be going through from my own recovered memories.

"Mmm, that feels nice." She relaxes to my touch and continues, "Needless to say the whole thing brought up some things they remember from our split."

I press a kiss on the top of her head, "You doin' ok?"

"Yeah. I just feel bad for all the kids. There's two little girls who just got the rug ripped out from under them as well."

"Sucks."

"Uh huh." She goes quiet while I work her shoulders over. "You know what's ironic?"

"What?"

"They've been together just about as long as Allen and I were together."

I grunt, not exactly sure what I'm supposed to say to that. "So, how long is Matt staying?"

"As long as he likes."

"Don't ya think Allen might have something to say about that??

"Already addressed. I called my attorney."

"Sandra?"

"Yep. Since Allen basically abandoned the boys and Christine is not exactly putting out the welcome mat, I've got a strong case."

"You sayin' he left and didn't tell them where he was going?"

"Sort of. Travis played back the voice mail he left. Apparently he's staying at the Ritz Carleton in the city and will be looking for an apartment. Said he'd fetch them later tonight."

"Later being anytime and Travis couldn't risk it?"

She nods, "Logan, how do you feel about this?"

"I'm ok with it. I mean, hell, the boys were always part of the deal when I married ya."

She wraps her arms around my legs, "You're something special, you know that?"

"Why's that?"

"Because a lot men would pitch a fit having step- parenting thrust on them."

"Lotta men out there don't have the balls to do the right thing."

"That's why you're special. You don't back away from what's right even if it's not easy and I love you for it."

Tell me that when I dump this on ya, darlin'. "Speaking of the right stuff that's hard to do…"

Her whole body seems to sigh, "Oh boy. I don't like the sound of this."

"I need ya to do something for me…"

She gives me doe eyes, "Oooh-kaay."

"…And it ain't gonna be easy."

Chin on my knees, she declares, "Can't be any tougher that the junk we've been dealing with lately."

How'd I get so lucky as to win a half glass full type of gal? Time to drop the bomb. Hope she don't dump the glass full on my head. "I want us to stay here on campus."

Spine straight, she pivots on her butt to face me, "What?"

"In the boathouse."

"Are you nuts? Why?"

"Because there's shit going on and you might be in danger."

"Logan that's a really tall order. What stuff? What kind of danger? You are talking a temporary thing, right?"

"You gotta trust me on this and do as I say."

"I do and I might but I need details, mister."

"The fire next door was not an accident. An accelerant was used."

"Arson?"

"Uh huh."

"That's sick. But why?" She gasps and I smell her fear. "Good lord! Do you think it's a hate crime? I mean Creed doesn't exactly cut a low profile if you know what I'm getting at."

"No. The job was way too professional."

"You really think so?"

"I know so and if my hunch is right it ties in with….Listen, there's been things happening that I haven't told ya about."

Her piss off meter's started to register orange. "What things?" she grinds and pushes away from me.

"Chill darlin'."

She gives me a look that would freeze magma.

"Here me out, Sue. Please."

Arms crossed, her implacable expression is scary. "This better be good," she snips.

"Ok. Do you remember the neighborhood Christmas Party a couple weeks ago?"

"Yes."

"That night I was talking with Creed. He told me Ruchinsky approached him."

"Ruchinsky?"

"Hatchet man for Replications and Weapons Plus."

"Replications? As in the ones after Wendy?"

"Yes."

"Shit! Why did he approach Creed?"

"They want him back; reactivated."

Intense astonishment colors her expression, "What the hell are you saying? Creed was involved with Replications?"

"No. Weapons Plus just like me and just like me they used him in the early Replications program."

She's fighting panic. "Oh my god! They've approached you? They know you're alive?"

"No. I dunno. Nothing's happened to make me think they know about me yet."

She pauses and I can almost see her struggling for an ounce of calm, "Yet. That's the key word isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"So you're afraid that if they do discover you're alive they'll come after you and I'll be caught in the middle."

"Or worse, they'll use you to get to me."

"How does the fire figure in this?"

"I told ya I'm sure it was arson. The accelerant is one that only we…Weapons Plus used."

"We? Oh god Logan, don't paint yourself with them."

"Babe, I ain't gonna lie to ya. I was with them. Voluntarily at one point. My hunch is, and I need to confirm it with Creed if I can find him, the fire was set as a warning…"

"A warning?"

"Yeah, join up or else. You don't tell those bastards no and walk away."

"Then why would you risk bringing the threat right to the schools front door?"

"Two reasons. Charles suggested it and it beats the other option."

"Other option?"

"Yeah, shipping you and now Matt to some remote location. At least this way you can have some semblance of a normal life."

"You're seriously suggesting we isolate ourselves here?"

"Dead serious."

"For how long?'

"Not long, I promise."

"Like you can predict," she mutters. "What about my practice?

"Start maternity leave early."

"Oh right! And what kind of excuse am I going to give? I won't have a position to go back to when this blows over."

"Better unemployed than dead, darlin."

"That's a bit much." Her tone is thick with skepticism. "I can't just drop everything every time a boogie man from your past says boo."

Get your head outta your ass, I almost shout. "Fuck it is, Susan! You know these boogie men have vast resources. If they're pulling together a team of surviving operatives…"

She cuts me off, "Ok, ok. Take a chill pill, Logan! Help me up," she says, and grabs my hands. "I'm not keen on this idea at all but I'll give it some thought."

I'll be goddamned. Just by her scent I can tell she's shoveling a load of shit at me. Hands on her hips and that damn whatever half- smile of hers, why don't she just come out and tell me where to get off?

"If it comes down to the wire, you'll do what I tell ya even if I gotta hog tie ya and lock ya in the underground."

Her jaw drops in shock as clouds of rage gather in her in her eyes. For a second I'm thinking she just might deck me. Stomping to the bedroom, she turns to face me by the door, her voice measured and low, "You can take that attitude and shove it up your ass." Pausing and arms crossed, her expression could reverse global warming.

She looking for a reaction? An apology? For me to back down? Pushed her hot button or not that ain't gonna happen.

"Oohhh you," blasts from her lips. She slams the door hard enough to knock a sconce off the wall, its glass globe shattering on the hardwood floor.

Guess I ain't getting any tonight.

Her raging hormones could set off a Geiger counter so reasoning with her right now is pretty much out of the question. Wadding up a sheet of scrap paper I grumble, "Aw fuck it," and toss it into the nearby trash can.

It ain't late and I ain't sleepy so I guess I'll prowl the mansion; see what's doing. Maybe grab a smoke and raid the kitchen. As I make my down the backstairs leading to the kitchen lingering trails of scents register in the background of my mind. Stuff like teenaged body odor, perfumes and potions the girls like to layer on, adolescent hormonal surges. Most of 'em I filter and dismiss as the usual clutter that assaults my senses every single stinkin' day.

Something's different. Off kilter. Bad off kilter. More potent that the usual teenage angst I've learned to tolerate.

Closing my eyes I suck in a deep breath parsing who's passed through here recently. There's been too much traffic and food smells mix it up so I can't separate individual scents well enough.

At the bottom of the stairs the scent of misery is stronger and I notice light coming from beneath the bathroom door. In stealth mode I edge closer, my own sense in overdrive. Holy shit! I smell blood. Lots of it.

Adrenalin surges through my veins. Dread twists my gut.

"Kid?" I shout and turn the door knob. It's locked. I hear rustling, the sound of metal clinking on porcelain.

"Go away," comes through like the squeak of a mouse.

Dammit, I mutter to the ceiling. Voice low and level, I command, "Open the door now."

There is only silence.

Screw this! I deploy a claw; insert it between the door and frame, easily cutting through the lock. Wrenching it open I damn near pull it off its hinges.

Oh my god! "Stop!"

A utility razor poised millimeters from her right wrist; she's curled into a tight ball between the toilet and sink. Blood dribbles down her legs and arms; soaks her oversized t-shirt.

Crisis at hand my mind goes on a sort of auto-pilot freeing my subconscious to assess and act or not, depending on the situation. Amplified and focused, my senses tell me it looks worse than it is. She ain't cut anything vital-yet. But she's hurting bad inside and projecting crushing grief and black despair that spikes deeply into my psyche.

Goddamn you Charles. Thought you were gonna stick by the kid; make it right for her.

Despite warning bells jangling in my brain over the burning she dished out our last encounter I crouch down level as I can with her. She's got the potential to fry my brains if she wants to.

Our eyes meet and lock on each other. Hers are liquid pools of sadness.

Clutching the razor blade, her hands shake. I'm fisting so she doesn't see how badly mine are.

Inside, my own heart's about to pound outta my chest and it's a struggle to keep my voice even and soft, "Please…."

Breaking eye contact, her eyes dart to the razor, the door behind me and then back to the razor.

Her scent shifts subtly. God, no! I don't need fear complicating the situation. "I ain't gonna hurt ya, angel."

"I know," she whispers.

"Put it down," I coax and inch closer.

She shudders, "You don't understand…"

I'm almost close enough to grab the blade away from her, "Help me to understand."

"No! Don't!"

Damn! She's read my intentions. I go still, conveying retreat through my body language, "Wendy, you don't wanna do this."

She shakes her head no whispering, "Have to."

Before I can deploy another tactic, conjure up something to say, she shifts gears on me.

Thrusting the blade in the air, she's angry and defiant, "You really don't get it. I'm not trying to kill myself."

I think the kid's gone 'round the bend.

Keep an even strain, bub. "What _**are**_ ya trying to do?"

Voice rising in pitch and volume, she lets loose a rapid fire volley of rationalizations, every one of 'em ringing true. Listening to the words, feeling the pain she's projecting, I've been where she is; done the very same thing. Cut myself on the outside to ease the pain on the inside.

Out of ammo or about to reload, I don't know which but she tosses the blade and it clatters across the tiled floor coming to rest at my feet. Covering her face with trembling, bloody hands she dissolves into a puddle of misery.

Scooping her up in my arms, I croon, "I know baby. I know…"

Seeing her suffer the same pain I felt at fifteen when my whole world crashed makes it a struggle to keep my own emotions in check. My heart feels ready to bust and I fight back actual tears making fast tracks carrying her to Susie's clinic in the west wing of the mansion.

XXX

**_Authors Notes: Sorry this took so long. Massive writers block. It's necessary I take an even longer break between now and the next chapter. I've got a continuing ed. course I must focus on with a killer exam due in March. Thus, I'm going to put a hundred percent into it. Thanks to my best beta for several lines and her usual electrifying prods. _**

**_Happy Holidays to y'all. Send me a holiday gift and review. (and not just good ones; I like to hear the real deal no matter what.) MLC.  
_**

_Obligatory Disclaimer: Marvel owns everything except Sue, Matthew, Wendy and a few others. I'm not earning a penny. (but I will say this: after reading Cerasini's newest, I should be earning something. What kind of junk does Marvel let past its agents?)_**_  
_**


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Ring. Ring.

Oh, go away I complain to no one but the bedside telephone.

Ring. Ring. It's the school's internal phone. I'm not on call and not in the mood to talk to anybody right now.

"Logan!" I holler. "Get that."

Ring. Ring.

Moron, I mutter, still peeved at his dictatorial attitude earlier this evening. "GET THE STUPID PHONE!"

Ring. Ring. What the heck is this? Caller ID indicates the call's coming from my office downstairs.

"Hello!"

_Susie, I need ya right now._

A chill zips up my backbone hearing the panic in his voice. Immediately, I'm in motion grabbing for clothes while imagining a thousand possible disasters. "What's wrong?" I ask cradling the handset between my neck and shoulder.

_It's Wendy. She's hurt herself. _

Oh, crap! "Ok. Talk to me."

The phone system is set up so I can move anywhere inside the mansion and continue talking; in this case triaging on the move. Since he tells me there is no arterial bleeding and the child is conscious, I tell him to put me on hold, call Marla and have her meet us.

She's wearing a bathrobe as we arrive simultaneously at the entrance to my office. The first words out of her mouth are, "What has that bastard done to my baby?"

It's a struggle not to smack her in the mouth. "Why don't we assess the situation before coming to conclusions, eh doctor?"

We find my husband cradling Wendy on the formerly cream-colored couch. Oh, special; blood red polka dots!

Wendy takes one look at her panic-stricken mother and immediately bursts into tears, "Mommy. I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry."

Rocking her back and forth in his arms, Logan soothes, "Sshh! Told ya angel, nothin' to be sorry for."

Apprehension drains from his face as his eyes bore into Marla, "What the hell did you tell her?" His voice makes icicles

This is so not the time for the two of them to get into it and I cut it off, "Logan, bring her into two."

"Are you insinuating this is my fault?" Marla bites.

He replies, "Nope. Statin' it as fact."

Crap sakes! I do not believe this; especially Logan. "If either of you wishes to remain in this room while I treat this young lady you will cease the conversation right now."

"Absolutely," Marla agrees pushing herself between Logan and Wendy. "I don't want you to speak to my daughter or be anywhere near her."

Logan shakes his head as Wendy tightens her grip on him, "No mom. Please. I want him here. He understands. He helps me."

Boy, oh boy! That takes the wind out of her sails and thankfully my husband keeps his expression neutral and his mouth shut.

"Wendy, would you like privacy?"

Both parents project scalding expressions in my direction. Tough toe nails! Marla should understand and Logan, since he seems to have suddenly lost his ambivalence, better get on a fast learning curve actually parenting a troubled teenager.

"Umm, dunno," Wendy ponders. "Guess so. Mom won't be far, right?"

"Just outside the door."

"Then…. okay."

Gently, I shoo Logan and Marla to the waiting area. No surprise, they take positions on opposite ends of the space. Supplied sandbags, I wouldn't be surprised to see them fortify their spaces. I hope they can refrain from lobbing nukes at each other.

"This is going to sting," I tell Wendy before applying disinfectant. "I'm sorry."

She sucks in her breath as the sopping gauze sponge touches the gouges rendered into her slender forearms

Trying my best not to sound accusatory or confrontational, I ask, "Have you done this before?"

Eyes downcast, she replies, "No," then nods slowly murmuring, "Yes. But only one time."

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"Nothing much to tell." Her cheeks flush, "It was kinda stupid really."

"It's never stupid."

She becomes silent and distant eyed, deliberating, I suppose. "Well, it was stupid why I did it."

She pauses, her eyes dart and she picks at her t-shirt. It's obvious she's uneasy. "I tried out for an appointment at the school for performing arts. I didn't make it."

"Really bummed you out, huh?"

Wendy scrunches up her face, "Totally!"

Gestures fiercely, she bombards me with, "It was like I worked like crazy. Practiced, watched my weight. You know the salad and water routine for weeks before the audition. I had awesome grades, everything perfect and they_ still_ took this other girl. I mean, she wasn't anywhere near as good as me and her grades were only high 'cuz she didn't take AP courses."

Tidy explanation… but I'll bet there's more to it. "How did your mom react?"

"She never knew."

"How did you hide it? She never noticed any scars?" Is Marla Jennings completely clueless?

"She was away on business and by the time she came home I was ok." Proudly, she adds, "I don't get scars anymore. Even the ones I got when I was a little kid are gone."

Oh ho! Healing factor going on? Well, why not? Replications probably engineered it into her.

She looks confused and asks, "Is that why?"

"What are you asking?"

"I have a healing factor like him?"

I feel my cheeks color in shame suddenly aware she's heard my unspoken opinions, "You're reading my thoughts, aren't you?"

"A little. I can't help it when someone is this close. Sorry."

I'm the one that's sorry. "It's possible you are like your dad, sweetheart."

I'm curious what else she's extracted from others minds and what she's been told by her mother but this isn't the time and it's probably not my place. "Wendy, what made you cut yourself tonight?"

A veil descends and she stares past me, "I don't know."

Damn. Pushed too fast, "I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable."

"He—my dad said he did it to himself."

"Really?"

"Uh huh. When he was my age and he got his healing thingy. Said he did a lot more than just cut himself just to see what would happen."

"Is that what you were doing?"

"A little."

"But there's more to it?"

Tears well up in her eyes, "I can't deal with all this junk. Do you know how creepy it is knowing peoples thoughts and feelings? And then everybody tries to cover it all up and treat me like a stupid baby. It's not like I didn't figure it out about Logan. But nobody tells me a thing…. and my stupid mom thinking she's blocking me out."

"This makes you feel angry, doesn't it?"

She nods, "And then they wanna have the professor fix me up. Like he really can."

"Professor Xavier is pretty top notch when it comes to t.p.'s just like you."

"I know but…"

"But what?"

She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, "I always wondered what it would be like to have a dad….."

Whoops! How'd we go from there to here? I just nod, anything to keep the dialog flowing.

"…I used to wish that mom would find somebody and get married. Then adopted or not, we'd be a real family."

"Just the two of you don't make you any less a family."

"Yeah, that's what mom always says."

Her voice becomes agitated and she yanks on a tangled lock of hair, "But now I find out my mom's not really my mom—oh wait. This is so confusing. I've got two moms but they aren't really moms and I've got this guy who is my biological dad, whatever the heck that really means." Ripping strands of hair from her scalp, she cries, "I don't have a freaking clue what I am!"

With so much going on inside it's no wonder her emotions are running amok. It hurts my heart to hear anger and frustration in her voice and see haunting despair in her face.

Maternal and professional instincts duke it out and I want to wrap my arms around her to make everything ok. If it were only that simple. Instead, I take hold of her hands and look directly into bewildered, morose brown eyes, "You are a beautiful, sensitive and smart young lady."

"And a mutant," she declares her face screwing up into a frown.

I wince at her inflection of the word mutant; as if it were a curse. Unfortunately, to an ignorant but powerful minority, it is.

"I don't….." Her lips freeze in the shape of a puckered O and she closes her eyes. After a moment she mutters, "They are so freakin' ignorant."

"Huh?" I don't hide the fact I've lost track.

"Stand by the door and just listen," she whispers.

Logan's voice is low and determined, "You're free to come and go but you ain't taking the kid anywhere."

"She's my daughter and as I've told you before you have no say," is Marla's quietly spoken rebuke.

"Hell I don't. She's more my daughter than yours…"

"Don't go there. Who raised her for these fifteen years?"

"Don't _**you**_ go there."

"The law is on _my_ side. If you even try to…."

Logan ups the volume, "Don't gimme that bullshit. Restraining order? I'm shakin' in my boots. Arrest me? Good luck to the dumb fuck who tries. Push my button some more, Marla. Maybe I'll slap a custody suit against you."

There's a long pause before Marla challenges with equal amplification, "You can't stop us from walking out of here?"

"You sure about that?"

"So you're effectively holding us prisoner?"

"Like I said you can come and go as you please but 'til the threat to Wendy's safety is neutralized she's staying right here."

"We'll see about that."

His voice drops again, "Marla, before you do something stupid, think about this. How far down the road do you think you'll get before Ruchinsky'll have her?"

There's another pause before Logan adds, "And if ya think they'll keep you around to play nursemaid, think again." He chuckles darkly, "What size cement boots do ya wear, darlin'?"

Before I can react, Wendy hops down from the table and flings open the door, "What part of me being a telepath haven't you guys figured out yet?"

If the situation were not so serious, I'd laugh at the stupefied expression on Logan's and Marla's face.

Gesturing fiercely Wendy blasts, "I'm not stupid and I'm not a baby and I'm sick of trying to piece it all together so will somebody please actually _**tell**_ me who Mister Ruchinsky really is and what's really going on?"

"Wendy…," Marla begins.

Wendy tosses her head, "Gah! Don't give me, we'll discuss it later."

To her father she beams one of the best stink eyes I've ever witnessed, "And don't even think, ask your mom."

Watch out papa bear, your cub's got your number.

I've got to bite my tongue stifling a snicker. This kid has issues but she's got chutzpah.

xxx

Her muted voice filters though the haze of slumber, "Wendy said you did the same thing when you were her age."

"Hmmm," I mumble, what she says drifting in the same direction my senses; unconscious.

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Cut yourself."

I groan and roll over, presenting my back hoping she'll get a clue and drop it.

"You know," she says after a few minutes. "This kind of thing doesn't just go away on its own."

"What are you talking about," I growl into the late night gloom of our bedroom.

"I mean, how long 'til you grew out of it?"

Rolling over and propping up on an elbow, my best STUFU expression is lost in the gloom, "Can we just sleep?"

"I'm sorry. My brain just won't shut off and neither will the twins."

Placing my hand on her belly; oh yeah the home team is kicking up like the World Cup match. I think it's true; if continuation of the human race depended on men it would have died out back in the Stone Age. No fuckin' way I could deal with what she's going through. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"Only when they bounce off my bladder or poke my diaphragm or other vital structure."

"That all?" I kiss her belly and settle back letting my sense tune into the faint patter of their heartbeats. "Yeah, I did cut on myself…well not so much that but pop my claws just watch it heal."

"Mmm. Guess that makes sense. Didn't you try to kill yourself?"

"Yeah, but….Susie, I really don't wanna go there?"

"I'm just worried," She plumps the pillows and sits up. "You say Wendy surfed your mind so there's no telling what she uncovered. What if she's influenced by it?"

Resting an arm over my eyes, "What's done is done and we'll hafta cope as things happen."

"How can you be so laid back?"

"I'm not." She's won't let this go so I prop my back against the wall, "And I'm gonna do every thing in my power to get her through."

"Like what?"

I snort, "For one, knock some sense into her mother."

"Get in line," she snickers. "Really though, do you have a plan?"

"Don't I always?"

"That's not an answer."

"It's not the answer you're looking for."

"Logan!"

"Susan!" I mimic.

"You don't, do you?"

"Don't what?'

"Have a plan."

"My plan is to eliminate the threat."

"What's his name…Ruchinsky?"

"Replications."

"How?'

"Anyway I hafta."

She goes silent and I sense strong fear. I pull her close wishing I could say or do something to ease her feelings.

She sighs and kisses my stubbly chin, "Whatever happens, I love you."

My lips seek hers, intent on demonstrating what I lack in words to express what her unconditional love means to me.

xxx

_This is NPR's Morning Edition_ blaring from the clock radio slaps me awake like a cold glass of water in the face. After last night's emotional double whammy showdown, I'm inclined to sleep clear into next year. Groaning, I ask Susie, "Hell's the alarm set for?"

Sitting up and stretching, "Breakfast meeting…," she claps her hand over her lips and yawns, "…with Sandra."

"Right," I mumble and burrow my head deeper into the pillows.

"Then, it's over to the hospital…"

"What for?"

"I'm giving Leslie VanKessel a reverse rectocele."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. There's a MRA policy meeting."

"Kick ass time, eh?"

"Hope not."

I grunt and roll over, intent on a few more minutes of shuteye. Instead, my brain goes into high gear. "Darlin'," I holler over the shower she's turned on. "You talkin' to Sandra about Matt?"

"What?"

"I said…." Got an urgent need to piss so I trudge into the bathroom, repeating the question.

She replies, "Uh huh. I asked her to draw up a petition giving me primary custody."

"'Kay. What about Travis?"

"He's over…."

Suddenly she yelps, "Dammit!"

Oh, shit!

My bad.

I flushed.

Peering repentantly around the doorjamb, I offer, "Sorry."

She flashes me a curdling look, "I'll get you for that."

The water regulates and she steps back under the spray explaining her agenda with Sandra but I'm not hearing a word. There's something about a beautiful woman standing in the shower soaping her voluptuous body that makes the blood pound in my ears.

She faces my direction letting the water rinse down her back. A naughty grin dances on her lips. Little minx knows she's got me at attention.

"Lookin' mighty fine, stud but the shower hasn't gained any more square footage since the day before yesterday."

"We'll figure something out," I tell her and step into the glassed enclosure.

"Didn't get enough last night?" she giggles.

"Never."

She feigns shock, "Horny dog!"

I touch her intimately, "Got a problem with that?"

"Hand me the soap and that sponge." She squeezes a liberal amount onto the sponge and kneads it into a lather. Starting at the nape of my neck she massages in firm, leisurely spirals. Her pregnant belly feels smooth and tight pressing against my buttocks.

My voice breaks husky, "Feels good."

She works her way down, pressing into the small of my back, "How 'bout this?"

"Mmm-hmm. . . Nice."

She snakes her soapy arms around my waist gently massaging my abs. Some where along the path south, the sponge is jettisoned. "Turn around, I want to see you."

Her caress is intimate, intense and she's got me right where I wanna be. Settling herself on the tiled shower bench she coo's "You like?" stroking with just the right moves.

Like? Oh yeah, darlin'. Growling by bliss, I close my eyes and lean back against the wall.

She's so fuckin' good at this my head swims. Shiver run up my spine while by groin burns for release. I can't help surrendering myself, moving to the rhythm of her touch.

Reading the signs, she quickens the pace and presses firmly on the one spot guaranteed to finish me off.

Arching my spine, I growl and release my passion like an eon-capped volcano.

My heart slows down to merely double time and I steal a look at my woman.

"She gazes back with an impish grim and asks, "Did good?"

I pull her toward me. Wrapping my arms around her, I let my kiss do the talking. My hands can't help exploring the soft curves of her back and hips while my mouth savors the sweetness in the hollow of her neck. "How 'bout return favors?"

She sighs, "Tonight Bright Eyes," and reluctantly breaks contact to abandon me to an empty stall. "Can't be late for this meeting."

Wrapping herself in a towel she scold, "Don't gimme that shrug! Time's money meeting with an attorney, ya know?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know." I crank up the hot water and let it pound against my scalp. "Do me a favor. Ask her what's the latest on Lippincott."

"Why? It's been dismissed."

"Huh? Oww!" A glob of shampoo slides into my good eye.

"Don't you remember?"

Not to save my ass. The bomb scramble my brains that much? "Where'd ya hear that?"

"Logan, how long since you checked your e-mail."

"Hell if I know. Couple days. Before New Years…maybe."

The expression on her face screams I'm a dork. "Put check e-mail on your to do list."

"It is babe but lemme ask ya this. In the last week when have had time?"

"Oh. Good point. Sandra copied me the message she sent December….oh heck, while we all were in Canada. But don't feel bad. I didn't see it 'til I got back home on the thirty first."

"Just tell me what it said."

"Hang on, I can't hear," she shouts over the blow dryer she conveniently switches on.

Dousing myself under the hot spray I'm thinking eh, forget it. She said dismissed. Don't give a flyin' fuck how.

On her way out she calls, "I hate that yucky residue so make sure you rinse down the shower."

What the hell's she talking about? Just as she flips a glance over her shoulder and adds, "Please," I get it.

Shouting back, "Trying to say I make a mess?"

She replies, "You're perceptive."

"Hey, ain't my fault."

She doesn't hear or pretends not to as the door shuts with a chunk.

xxx

Susie's sipping a cup of tea chatting with Charles and Scott when I make it down to the staff dining room. I grunt a reply to Charles cordial, "Good morning" and needle Susie, "What's with the big rush to your meeting?" Turn down scrumpin' for a cup o' tea?

"I've got a few minutes. You know I can't go anywhere without my morning tea."

Part of me want to take issue but I know what happens if her morning routine gets too far off the mark. Don't want the blame.

I cut Scott a surprised glance, "Thought you were due back tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Well, plans change."

Ain't he just mister sunshine this mornin'! "How's the shoulder?"

He tugs on the sling grousing, "Still attached."

Unshaven and rumpled, this ain't the usual Summers. Not surprising, there's a whole lotta negative emotions flying off him.

Grabbing coffee, I plunk down next to Susie and ask him, "How'd the funeral go?"

His voice is flat," It was a funeral."

"Yep, I'm still numero uno on his shit list. With no advantage engaging the sour puss, my focus goes to Charles, "All quiet on the fourth floor apartment?"

"Yes," He shifts uncomfortably but locks his intense gaze on me. "I want to apologize again to you and Susan for my imprudent oversight."

Thinking damn straight you're sorry bub, I shrug and reply, "Far as you know everything was copasetic. Nobody knew she was gonna melt down." This ain't exactly how I expressed it last night when he arrived after Sue's frantic page. But he's chewing himself up over it and I had my say. No point beating a dead horse.

"Despite her burgeoning abilities I should have anticipated it."

We all should've. "She's good ain't she?"

"Her potential is astounding and with suitable guidance she will be a marvel."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"Logan, it's vitally important you understand how much guidance a young woman with her gifts requires to mature into her benevolent potential."

I think he's trying to tell me if we fuck it up she might fuck us over. "Yeah, I get that." Time to change the subject 'cuz I don't need a lecture. "What's the status of the boathouse?"

"As we speak a cleaning crew is at work. The variable at this moment is the heating system."

"Problems?"

"Yes. It's rather antiquated."

"You mean it doesn't work," Susie guesses.

"Correct."

She cuts me a scathing glare and mutters, "Joy!"

I've got an overwhelming urge to smash my head into a brick wall. Can't one fuckin' thing go right for a change?

Charles continues, "Vic is going to take a look at it."

"Ok. I'll get with him and see what we can do."

"I've gotta go," Susie declares. There's that sour stink of frustration.

"Babe, don't worry. I got it covered." And I better if I don't want really end up sleeping in the doghouse.

She shakes her head and walks out.

Shit! I can defeat a megalomaniac but with simplest gesture or word, my wife has the power to…eh, forget it. Ain't goin' there. Bolting from my seat, I go after her. "Hey, thought we got this straight last night."

"Yeah, we did but you'll hafta forgive me if I just don't jump for joy over the whole deal. And now factoring in a problem with the heat and god knows what else might crop up."

"I know darlin' but it's the best I can do right now."

"I suppose. Doesn't mean I like it."

"Promised I'd make it short."

I'm holding you to it, too. Gotta run now."

Helping her with her coat, I say, "I'll walk with ya."

The only sound is our shoes crunching on the snow packed walkway between the mansion and the garage. Our breath steams but her's ain't just from the cold air. She's still in a snit over staying here. To break the spell, I ask, "What's Matt up to today?"

"Hanging out mostly."

"He gonna be ok?"

"I think so but I plan on checking on him periodically."

"Right. Want me to keep him busy?"

"Thinking of having him help you and Vic?"

"If he wants and give him a chance to ask me stuff about Wendy."

"Good idea. He might like that. You're a sweetheart sometimes:"

"Sshh! Don't say that so loud."

She claps a hand over her mouth, "Wouldn't dare. Hey, speaking of your gentle streak…"

"Never been accused of that before."

"Go easy on Scott."

"Huh?"

"Did you not notice he's in a rather foul mood?"

"No shit."

"Aren't you curious as to why?"

"He's probably still worked up over this Wendy thing."

"You could say that. He broke it off with your sister."

"Whoa!"

"Yeah. We'll talk this evening." She pecks me on the lips, "Love ya."

xxx

I find Matt in the game room surrounded by a small harem, which is the usual routine whenever he's around. Scuttlebutt is he's sooo cute; least that's what I've overheard boy crazy Jubilation Lee gush. 'Course she says that 'bout me too which makes me wonder about the kid sometimes.

I hold back just outside the door and it's tough not crackin' up laughing watching him showing off his best rock star impersonation playing some kind of interactive video game. What the hell happened to plain ol' air guitar?

New to his fan club is Wendy though she seems to be lurking around the fringes. I'm kinda surprised she hasn't picked up I'm nearby. Immature handle on her skills? Gonna hafta train her…..Nope. Quit it, bub. Soon as the danger's eliminated, I know Marla'll have her gone faster'n I can blink.

Absent from her arms are the bandages from last night. From where I'm standing, I can't see any sign of the cuts she inflicted on herself. I don't know whether to be happy for her or not 'specially if it means she might manifest feral or worse she's got a set of claws inside those scrawny arms of hers. Hope to hell she don't.

He finishes the set with an exaggerated bow and gets a round of hoots and applause from his groupies after which I make my presence known, "Hey Matt."

Poor kid turns bright red and most of the girls giggle like idiots.

Without so much as a peep, Wendy drifts away from the pack and I sense she's uneasy. She's gonna hafta cope 'cuz today's Matt's turn.

"Need your help with something today. You cool with that?"

Before he gets a chance to answer Jubes cuts in, "Better run while ya can, dude. Any time Coach says I need help it means a ton of work."

"Lee, don't you have studying to do or something?"

"Classes go back next week," she answers in a haughty tone.

Matt's reply, "Yes sir," is formal but there's no tension behind it. Recovered from terminal embarrassment he bids, "Adieu, ladies," and shoulders up with me heading for the boathouse.

Adieu ladies? The kids too charming for his own good.

"Mom said you might ask me. Whadda we doing?" he asks shrugging on his jacket.

"Eulogizing a heating system," I joke and he looks confused. "Fixing the heat at the boat house," I explain.

More like installing a new one if I had to bet. The boathouse, as it's called, pre-dates the mansion. According to Charles, his ancestors built it as a summer vacation home then as city living became unfashionable, his grandfather built the mansion and settled onto this country estate.

The Xavier's, on par with Rockefellers or Vanderbilts, didn't spare any expense or luxury at the time they built it. Despite good maintenance and updating it's over a hundred years old it's got its share of quirks.

I even got Susie to admit the place has charm and discovered her prime objection to moving in is that it's too close to our jobs. That—and it ain't _**home. **_For me, home could be a tent; as long as she's there, I'm good.

Wendy intercepts us just outside the garage, "Um-- Logan?"

"'S'up angel?"

"Can I go with you?"

I'm floored...and pleased but I can't, won't mix it up with her and Matt yet. Plus, there's a huge obstacle, "Your mom say it's ok?"

"Uh huh." She's lying. I can smell it and see it in her posture. Inroads made last night or not, I know Marla don't want us getting cozy.

"Matt, go on to the truck. I'll be right there."

Once I'm sure he's out of range I level Wendy with a critical squint, "You didn't even ask your mom, did you?"

She goes skittish then screws up her courage. "I'm almost sixteen. I'm not asking permission for every little thing."

And I ain't lettin' her suck me into the middle of this any more than I already am. "Here's the deal. Your mom says ok then I'm ok. You got five minutes to convince her."

She marches off in a huff. I give her almost ten minutes and like I expect, she doesn't show.

xxx

Seated around the highly polished rectangular conference table are over twenty-three of my colleagues representing each department of North Salem Community Care Hospital. Each takes a turn voicing concerns over implementing the hospitals policies concerning the care of HSX1 positive patients sometimes referred to as h. Superior or Mutants.

"Ok folks, I'm going to be blunt." It's my turn and my emotions are running amok. Given complete license to express myself, my preference is to slap every one of you into next year. I pause for effect and control, "This policy violates everything we as professionals of the art of medicine are duty bound to uphold. As a person of conscience, I will not support it in any manner. I also vigorously protest the unethical and unprofessional manner in which this policy is being implemented."

I scan the room taking note of numerous affirming head bobs but almost as many blank stares and averted eyes. I take particular note of one boastful sneer aimed directly at me from Doctor Leslie VanKessel.

I will rip her hair out and shove it down her throat.

Contrasting my formal approach, Chief of Staff, Jack Burleson rebuts plainly, "Sue, I completely understand your sentiments but this came down from the board of directors. They yanked the carpet right out from under the committee."

"You didn't see it coming?" Keeping the disdain and disgust from my body language and tone is almost impossible.

Jack scolds, "We all knew there was a possibility the board would go hard line."

Another committee member picks up with my defense, "But to mandate it like this when we're privately funded?"

"All of you have seen the spread sheets. You know we get enough government funding to make a painful dent if it's pulled." Recalcitrance plays across his face, "And it's pretty damn obvious which way the private funders lean."

Voice around the table create a buzz, the gist of the majority seems to be cynical: The almighty dollar wins again.

So true; can't win with bean counters, so I try another path, "Where are we supposed to send these patients?"

"That's yet to be determined."

Yes, because there is no place and even if there was insurance companies are denying coverage to any one testing positive.

"I don't know about you all but I can't—won't practice medicine this way. I don't care who it is; someone comes in needing care on my shift I will treat them."

Several committee members applause.

"You're not the only one who's expressed that sentiment but you do so at your own risk." Jack's words are threatening but the tone doesn't support the verbiage. Neither does the look on his face.

"And I assure you," VanKessell, brays like the ass she is. "My department will be thoroughly compliant."

I just bet it will, you heartless bitch. Makes me glad I'm not doing ER rotation for now and pretty much seals my decision not to return after the twins are born. Private practice looks more appealing every day.

"Jack, you sound like you're in synch with the board?" My question is fueled with accusatory fire.

His shoulders sag ever so slightly, "It's been a helluva couple days and there are no avenues open in pursuit of moderation."

"For us all." I haven't updated him about my stimulating holiday break. "Straight answer Jack; compliance with the mandates or hasta la vista?"

VanKessel aims another sneer at me, her comportment trumpeting her rigid interpretation.

Jack's offers his interpretation, "That's the way the board see's it but I'm only one man and can only police things so much. You're all seasoned professionals and have worked within the system for many years. I have no doubt the majority will continue to do so."

Publicly, that's as close as our esteemed Chief of Staff will go in expressing his opinion and how he plans to enforce this draconian policy. What he's really saying is if a violation isn't shoved in his face, we're all free to do what our conscience dictates.

I wonder how long before there's a mass exodus of ER personnel from VanKessel's tyranny?

Walt Emerson, from Urology, quips in a low voice, "What's next? Firing anybody that's positive for the mutant gene?"

"That was in the first draft," Jack replies. "It's one of the small concessions I wrestled out of them."

His admission causes another vocal eruption, "Mighty generous of them," and, "Afraid they'd end up with massive staff shortages, no doubt," rises out of the furor.

Jack plays it politically expedient declaring, "All right ladies and gentlemen, I'm available if any one has any things they want to discuss privately. Send Patti a message and I'll get with you ay-sap."

Jack departs quickly followed by supporters of this insanity. Not surprising, VanKessel carries the banner, hell bent, no doubt, to follow the letter of the law.

Half a dozen of us remain glued to our seats struck mute in utter dismay. After a few minutes several more quietly exit, expressions of turmoil and dysphoria etched on their faces.

"Been thinking about retirement," Walt says while tapping his pen on the tabletop He punches hard, denting the gleaming finish, "Time's come."

Obstetrics', Doctor Sharon Brodsky sighs, "I still owe a gazillion in student loans from medical school so I'm stuck in the grind for a few more years."

I purse my lips in sympathy remembering those trying years. Daddy with deep pockets or not, it's a lean time.

Walt queries, "What about you, Sue? Permanent maternity leave?"

How appealing that sounds! But I doubt I could really do it. I'd go stir crazy after a few months. "No, I'll keep plugging at it though I think the best thing is to keep our heads down and take it day by day."

"Are you delivering here?" Sharon asks.

"Yes."

"Can I ask…a personal question?"

"You can ask I don't guarantee I'll answer."

"You know how Howard was and Leslie is a big mouth?"

Oh, fudge. I know what's coming. "Yes, my husband is X positive." We won't talk about manifest. "But you know what Shar, in the nineteen sixties if he'd been black it's be the same kind of thing. How about if my partner was female?"

"Hold on Sue! I wasn't trying to offend. What I'm getting at is the OB department won't be able deliver babies testing positive. Have you considered that?"

Oh god! No, but I sure should even though I asked Lance not to run any prenatal genetic screens. I wouldn't mind know the twins status and I bet they are positive. What I didn't want to know, with the risk factors in a woman my age, was if there were any genetic abnormalities like Downs. What would I do knowing? Abort. Absolutely not and if the unthinkable becomes reality I wouldn't want to spend my entire pregnancy freaking out over it.

"No offense taken," but I don't answer her second question. Pushing back from the table and standing I rationalize, "I've got a weeks worth of catching up over at the office so I'll see y'all later." That and exploring my options, as I'm sure several of us will be over the weeks and months to come.

xxx

"Mi dios, she's a heavy mother," Vic complains as we maneuver the new heating unit into place.

We're rigging the new system by completely bypassing the old radiant heat pipes and tapping into existing AC vents. "No shit!" I grunt feeling the strain in my not quite healed body. Might look back to normal but I ain't. To make things worse, the cellar's is just a crawl space and we're cramped and crouched. Definitely looking forward to a date with the hot tub tonight.

"Ok. This is good as she gets," Vic says setting his side of the monster down.

"Yeah," I groan releasing my share of the load. "Damn thing better work 'cuz it's ain't coming outta here easy."

Cracking my joints, I challenge, "Matt, think ya can squeeze in there and hook up the gas pipe?"

The kid sizes up the narrow slot between cement wall and heater. "Maybe if I get naked."

"And greased," I tease.

"Not," he laughs and wedges his way into the space.

"Ya ain't claustrophobic, are ya kid?"

"Will be after this," he grunts. "Which way do I turn the sleeve?"

"Right tight, left loose. Didn't forget the anchor tape, did ya?"

"No sir," I hear grunting and metal scraping metal. "Got it."

"'Kay. I need ya to sponge soapy water on it while Vic turns the gas on."

"What for?"

"Test for leaks."

"Can't ya smell it?"

"Yeah but that don't pinpoint the spot."

"What if it leaks?"

"I take ya out and beat ya."

He laughs, "That's child abuse."

"Forget it. It won't leak." Better not 'cuz there's no way in hell I wanna move this damn thing outta the way and trouble shoot.

Vic feeds the gas and…..oh yeah. Perfecto!

"Ok kid, shimmy on outta there."

The back of his green jacket is gray from cement dust and it puffs into the air when I slap him between the shoulders, "Good job."

"Thanks. Think I understand why mom and dad bug me to study hard. Definitely don't wanna do stuff like this for a job."

"Don't knock manual labor. Kept me from starving."

"I'd rather be the boss."

I laugh out loud. The kid knows what's good. "I'm gonna light the pilot. Why don't ya head upstairs in case this thing flares or something."

"Ok."

When I'm sure he's clear I flick my lighter. A bright jet briefly flares then settles into a steady blue flame. "Hey," I holler. "Somebody flip the thermostat up there." It whines, the fan starts up and in seconds the furnace roars to life pumping heat through the vents.

"Yee ha!" I shout. Took all friggin' day but now Susie can't bitch me out about lack of heat. Never mind that there'll prob'ly be more to come. Ah well, life's a bitch.

Joining Vic and Matt on the main level, I declare we are officially done for the day. It's getting dark and damn weather's closing in again with more snow. Tomorrow's another day to move furniture in. And there's the added bonus of the place being warmed up.

I whistle for Bear who seems to have made himself scarce most of the afternoon then suggest to Vic, "Grab the wife and I'll treat ya's to dinner."

"Oh man! Don't know about that. She's been feeling sick lately."

'S'up with that? Hadn't sensed anything goin' on with Electra. Oh wait; haven't exactly been in close proximity to her in a couple days. "What's her problem?"

"She's pregnant."

"You're shitting me!"

The broad grin plastered across his mug says he ain't. He flips open his cell phone and rattles off in Spanish. Then, I hear Electra's reply and it sounds like supper with the Marquez's is a no-go.

"She says thanks but another time," Vic confirms.

"Wanna stop off for a brew before we go back?"

"No. I better get back in case she needs me."

Part of me wants to abuse him saying he's a pussy whipped dog but that'd be so damn hypocritical sinceI'm still paying dues with Susie some mornings.

"Hey Logan," Matt butts in. "Mom'll kill us if you take me to a bar."

"Nah. She's cool with Pastorelli's, ain't she?" It's the best pizza joint for miles and they stock a respectable selection of potent specialty beers—on tap. "'Sides Matt, it's the first place you're mom and me went out together. No way she'd object."

Vic snickers no doubt remembering how I made a major league ass of myself that evening.

"Long, cold hike back to the mansion," I remind him.

Best pal that he is, Vic turns his back on me vigorously massaging the back of his neck and flashes the single digit salute.

Bear doesn't show by the time we've loaded up our tools but I figure he's wandered back to the mansion on a mooch mission.

"So when's it due?" I ask on the drive back to the mansion.

"Dunno yet. She just found out New Year's."

"Right. Ya got a way's to go then."

He nods then stares into the distance and I'm sensing powerful anxiety. Somethin's up but it ain't my business.

As soon as I park my truck beside Susie's mommy mobile, Matt beelines it for his pals. Taking the back way I slip into Susie's office. She's there along with a waiting room full of sick kids.

I catch her eye going between examining rooms, "How long?"

"About an hour. I'll buzz ya when I'm done."

I nod doing my best not to inhale the stench of sick kids. Can't catch anything but it rips my senses and make me anxious to put distance between her office and me when it's like this.

Hungry and with time to waste I wander in the direction of the kitchen aiming to mooch whatever Mrs. Burn's has handy.

"Logan." Scott's voice filters from his office, just down the adjacent corridor from the kitchen. His voice and scent, stronger than kitchen aromas, tells me he's not a happy man.

I lean against the doorframe, "Yeah." About to ask how's it going I stop myself. Under the circumstance that's low; even for me.

"Do we have a plan?"

I shrug. We do not have a plan. I do but it won't make it past the first briefing.

The cold frown on his face says he's in fearless leader mode and my evasive reply doesn't set well if the grinding of his jaw is any clue. "Careful Cyke, you'll crack a filling."

He doesn't engage, "Sit down. You need to see this."

That smacks too much of an order so I prop on the edge of his desk, cross my arms and blast him my best fuck off and die expression.

He sneers and rotates his computer screen. It's lit up with non-descript, utilitarian list of names. Reading it, three names hit me like a hollow point bullet between the eyes. Malcolm Colcord, L.P. Diebel, N. Harlan Peabody.

"What the hell's this?" I'm blown away.

"The real controlling entities behind Genesys."

Takes me a second to link Genesys. Shit! Marla's V P of something with these bozo's. I slam my fist against the desk, "Fuckin' ay!" That bitch has to know this. "How'd ya dig this up?"

"By sitting down and doing actual research; one of the many skills you consistently seem to lack."

Whatcha gonna do; stick me in a corner and chuck a dunce cap on my noggin? I'm tempted to tell him where to stuff it but my brain's revving through its gears as the raceway throws another curve my way.

I didn't buy into how Marla separated from Reps like she said she had. On the slim chance she's stupid enough not to know who pays her salary it's obvious she's been set up in a cushy job so they could keep tabs on her and the kid all these years. But why? Ain't Reps usual M.O.

And why the hell did Ruchinsky approach her like he did instead of snatching the kid outright and wasting Marla? "Ah, Jesus Christ!" I mutter. My gut kept tellin' me; this is a fuckin' trap.

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin', Cyke?"

"Lock down?" He rakes a hand through his hair and stares at the floor. Don't take any skill at all to know this is a decision neither of us makes easily.

Yeah," he exhales. The odor of his frustration is pungent as Listerine." Let's alert the professor."

XXX

**_A/N: Thanks to my best beta, Rhiannon UK. Thanks for the reviews of Chapter 8._**

**_Disclaimer: The usual._**


	10. Chapter 10

Before you launch into this chapter, I feel obligated to refresh your memory. I'm embarrassed it's taken me over a year to write events that have taken six days in story time line!

AMTAE began on the SHIELD space station; New Years Eve; late afternoon in my mind. Logan was blown up. Back on his feet two days later another bomb dropped on him; that is, round one of Wendy's issues. Closely following is round two of Wendy's issues; her DNA results from the testing Sue had done in More Than Yesterday, Less Than Tomorrow. Wendy has major meltdown number one over her DNA revelation. The plot thickens with the DNA issues and it seems everybody's in a tizzy and that's putting it mildly.

Next, Logan and Sue's house is nearly burned to the ground. Logan suspects dirty dealing and declares it's not safe for them to live off campus. Unhappily settled back at the mansion, Wendy has meltdown number two. In addition, all this fun stuff is going on amidst a few personal and professional issues Sue is coping with.

It's now late afternoon/early evening on January sixth. Logan has just returned from a laborious though comparatively relaxing day of repairing the heating system of the boathouse where he and Sue will reside until it's safe to return to their home. Scott Summers has just made a significant discovery relating to Replications. Logan and Scott are now on their way to brief Charles.

CHAPTER TEN

He leans forward, cashmere sweatered arms resting on the immaculately polished tabletop. Fingers pressed together in a pyramid, Charles' expression is poker but the emotions are anything but, "This is a complication I'd not foreseen but I assure you there is no evidence Doctor Jennings is aware."

"Ya gooned it up with Wendy. What makes ya think ya ain't with Marla?"

If looks could kill, Cyke's sourpuss'd do the job. How dare I submit evidence that Charles Almighty ain't quite perfect.

Charles remains a pillar of dignity, the only outward sign I've hit bulls eye is the slight creasing in the corners of his gray blue eyes. "Indeed," he says with an almost audible exhale. It's the closest to a mea culpa he's gonna verbalize and since rubbing his nose in it is ultimately counter productive I let it drop.

"I concur with your assessment that the entire school is a potential target and I'd like to call the rest of the team together for an immediate briefing."

Scott nods his head like an over eager pup, "I'll have every one assemble in the Situation Room; say fifteen minutes?"

Now I'm itchy. What's gotta be done and what Charles'll go for don't jive. Wasting my breath over it is just that; a fuckin' waste of time. But, it looks like I'm roped in.

Everything is hunky-dory 'til the inevitable what do you propose is raised. I don't mince words delivering the solution.

The silence is deafening and potent sentiments bombard my senses from every direction.

"We aren't a hit squad, Logan," Storm's predictable declaration is reinforced by a predictable majority of bobbing heads.

"What part of this don't you all get? Stryker's private militia was kid stuff compared to even a partially resurrected Weapon Plus."

"Y'all need ta listen ta Logan!" Guess Rogue's on my side of the ring and from the expressions on the faces of the juniors, seems I rate a cheer team. Problem is, it's gonna take a lot more than a bunch o' rah-rah's to do the job.

Like a kid in study hall, Kitty raises her hand, "Just what was Weapon Plus?"

"The nastiest bunch of mother fuckers to ever walk the planet."

Kitty's mouth forms an O as she bows her head and picks at her purple nail polish.

Charles, ever the diplomat, explains, "Weapon Plus' original purpose was to train selected Mutants to combat terrorism."

"Bull shit, Charles! We were forged as assassins to exterminate anything that got in bastards like Stykers' way."

He ignores my fiery retort, "The organization was repurposed to include mercenary activities, just as Logan describes."

"We are….. cold-blooded killers," I growl. Some of us programmed to torture and murder our own kind but let's save that lesson for another day.

"We?" Kitty's eyes bug.

I ain't sugar coating it, "We, sweet cheeks." Thrusting a thumb into my chest, "As in me."

Silence falls like a shroud. I sense disbelief, disgust and everything in between. Yep, kiddies. There's a big, bad wolf and I'm it.

Kurt utters, "How do ve know for certain they vill strike?"

"You willing to gamble against it? I sure as hell ain't."

Kurt's only response is to whip his tail in figure eights against the cement floor.

Storm weighs in again, "What about Sabretooth's part in this? He's the last creature I'd ever trust."

"Yeah, I know where you're coming from. All I can swear to is he wasn't lying about meetin' up with Ruchinsky." And if that's all that had gone down we wouldn't be dickin' around right now.

"Ve should seek help against such a potentially large and dangerous adversary."

"Considered and rejected." For now.

"Vhy?"

"Because it's damn near guaranteed Reps is watching for just that kind of thing."

"Perhaps Colonel Fury or SHIELD?"

Charles quietly interjects, "One does not simply contact Nick Fury' it's commonly quite the opposite."

Gotta concur with Charles, "That 'n this operation's small potato's to SHIELD."

Charles' expression is stone cold as he finally tosses in his two-cents worth, "Our options seem limited at the moment. However, whatever plan of action is agreed upon, know that I will not condone or facilitate needless violence or lethal force."

I won't conceal my frustration grinding out, "You think I've got time to waste on needless? We get one shot at this and success depends on crack intel, surgical precision and the balls to do what's necessary." A measure of luck won't hurt, either.

"Logan's right."

Holy shit! The freakin' world's just tilted on its axis.

Cyke continues, "Like Kurt, I know first-hand about Stryker and while I'd like to think it could be avoided we must be ready to use lethal force."

Expression banal, Charles clears his throat, "Logan, your concerns are unerringly valid along with several suggestions you've put forth. We shall activate the highest level security measures, including lock down. We shall endeavor to gather all the intelligence available."

There's flint in those eyes as they briefly settle on Cyke, sweep the table and then back on me, "However let me reinforce that at no time will we, _as a Team,_ embark upon an offensive."

Cyke doesn't say a word but conflict and frustration hang over him like a dark cloud.

" I'm telling ya. . ." Eyeballing Charles and everyone in the room, "All of ya. . . This is gonna come down to us or them. It's quicker to kill than incapacitate and dead men don't mend and come after ya."

It's pin drop city once again.

"No doubt we must agree to disagree on what constitutes an appropriate solution." It's obvious he's surfing minds as Charles makes brief eye contact with three potential allies of mine, "That being the case, I shall not stand in your or anyone else's way in pursuit of that solution."

Right. When the shit hits the fan, I'm on my own. Most don't have the stomach for it and siding with me or not, don't have the cajones to countermand Charles.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, if there are no further questions or comments," Charles toggles his chair into reverse. "Let us adjourn and attend to security measures."

Faces are grim and determined shuffling out. Charles lags, waits 'til the servo doors hiss closed, "Logan, Scott, a private word, please."

Looking dignified and paternalistic, he can't mask the scent of his conflicted feelings, "I fear you are both letting emotion rule judgment."

I don't dignify Charles with a reply. If he don't know by now how I operate he's never gonna.

It's Summers who cuts loose, "You think so, Professor? Maybe you should let your emotions rule once in a while."

In a rare show of anger Charles bites, "Over wrought emotion, violence or lethal force will not bring Jean back."

"I know, goddammit! I know." For a second Summers looks like he'll shatter. "But the chance at avenging the wrong done to her is more than I can pass up."

Charles veil of control falls again, "Ask yourself this question: What would she want us to do?" It almost sounds like a plea.

Cyke grinds between clenched teeth, "Ask yourself, Professor," and stalks out.

Projecting, _I knew it would come to this_, his shoulders slump. Massaging his forehead, Charles seems worn down.

Ya surprised ol' man? I don't say it but his expression tells me he heard.

"You know, there will always be another evil to fill the void when the first is vanquished. Not immediately but eventually."

"I'll do what I can now and worry 'bout the rest when I hafta."

"This is an endless cycle that I am fast becoming weary of."

I chuckle but there's no humor behind it, "Join the club, bub."

He looks as resolute as his words sound, "Nevertheless, I understand what you must do and I hope you understand that I must stand true to my beliefs as well as tread a narrow political path."

"Politics be damned, Charles!"

"Really? That attitude is beneath you. As despicable as it is, you know our freedom, the existence of this institution, depends on the whims of politics." Masking nothing this time, I hear the ire in word and feel the emotions he projects into my head.

I return fire, "Tell me that when the mansion's a pile of charred bricks and these kids you've sworn to protect are either dead or goose stepping robots at Luc Diebel's pleasure."

"We face that possibility from many sources, including the powers that be in Washington. In my mind, that cements the defensive nature of the X-Men."

"Don't ya mean pacifist?"

"No," Charles blasts, the dome of his bald head ripe as a tomato, "Every one of us would fight to the death to protect this school and each other. After Alkali Lake and the measures we've taken since, I shouldn't have to defend my position to you."

Then why the fuck ya goin' ostrich now? "You said it best a few minutes ago. We gotta agree to disagree."

I feel pressure at my temples as the manipulating, nosy bastard tries to get into my head. There's nothin' more to discuss so I project a dose of mental static for his trouble.

He flinches but recovers in a hurry, "Indeed. May I ask a personal question?"

"Shoot."

"Why was your wife not included in this briefing?"

"She's, uh, upstairs, running clinic. Same as Electra."

I feel him rooting once more; surface thoughts this time but it still pisses me off.

He locks his eyes with mine, "You're making a foolish error excluding her."

Taking a step toward him, I'm about to shove him and his wheel chair through the fuckin' door, "Get outta my head and butt outta my marriage."

He doesn't blink, doesn't move a muscle as I stalk past him. It ain't the scent of fear that circles him as I exit but bitter disappointment and bone deep weariness.

xXx

Didn't expect Charles' curveball adding Susie into the mix. Prob'ly should've. No way I'm keeping her outta the loop. But she's in no shape to take active part in this so why get her all worked up?

Who ya tryin' t'convince, bub?

Doesn't matter. Somethin's gotta be done and it's gonna be messy. Less she knows and the further away, the better.

She's got one kid left in an examining room and I over-hear her talking 'bout female troubles—cramps 'r somethin'. Happy to tune out, I stretch out on the couch in the waiting area and push my thumbs against my forehead. Where my left eye oughtta be is killing me: Pressure, pins and needles and the intermittent spike through the middle of my brain. What do they say? No pain, no gain! Better mean this damn thing's regenerating.

There's a scratching on the door leading out to the terrace. Well, whadaya know? It's mutt. Opening it, I command, "Git in here," and ruff the wooly black fur on his neck. His thick tail wags almost knocking over a stack of magazines on the low table set before the couch. As he flops down on the carpet and huffs, can't help thinking I wouldn't mind his free n' easy existence.

Susie emerges from the exam room, patient in tow. "Hi, hon," she flashes a smile my way.

Rummaging through a cabinet and producing a small cardboard package, she tells the kid, "Start these two days before your period and I think you'll notice a big difference."

"Thanks, Doctor Sue. You're the best."

Soon as the kid bolts out the door the wife crosses her arms across her belly and lasers me with an expression saying, _Well, I'm waiting_. She doesn't give me a chance to suck breath before starting in, "A little bird told me there was a team briefing."

"Yeah. Seems Marla's outfit is tied with some ol' pals o'mine."

"Right," she drawls flippantly. In another second she's sober, "What's up?"

"Looks like Genesys is a front for Replications."

"Oh my god!" She pales and sinks next to me on the couch. "Marla's still in with them?"

"Dunno. I still don't smell a lie on her and Charles thinks she's clean but we're going on lock down effective now."

"Lock down? Just what the heck is that all about?"

"Well. . . you've studied up on security protocols, haven't ya?"

"Of course but you're hedging. I can see it in your eyes. Drop the other shoe, Logan."

I can't hide a damn thing from this woman! Gotta be our bond. Same weird thing with Mariko.

I suck up a deep breath cuz I know she's gonna just _**love**_ what's next, "The boathouse ain't safe enough."

"Let me surmise. We're going to be cooped up in your two room suite upstairs."

"That'd be right."

Ready: Her eyes go wide.

Aim: She cocks her head, squints and sucks in her cheeks.

Fire: "Oh no way!"

Looks mad.

Sounds mad.

And hoo-boy! Don't ya love the vinegar stink of a good mad? Susie's her got own particular vintage and I think I'm about to get a bucketful dumped on my head.

"First you force me out of my home and into your basic dormitory . . . ".

Yo princess! My suite's better n' most four-star hotels but I ain't sayin' it 'cuz I wanna keep my anatomy intact.

"And now my practice! I don't think so."

"Babe, I'm sorry. Ain't like there's a choice."

"Says you!"

Says me? "Like I'm makin' this shit up?"

I'm just about to pop a gasket of my own when she counters, "Never mind. I'm sorry. But what i_**s**_ the problem with the boathouse?"

"Oh c'mon. Use your head. It's too far from the mansion and there're no underground escape passages."

"I . . . I can't argue with that."

"Damn straight, darlin'. Come up with somethin' better and I'm all ears."

"Lose the attitude, bub,"

I sneer and she turns up the snark, "Trust me. It's about to become a high priority. How long is this so called lockdown going to go on?"

"Long as it takes."

She tosses her hands in the air, "Arrggh! How the heck to you expect me to run my practice?"

Can't meet her eyes cuz I ain't got the answer. At least not the one she wants to hear.

"How are we going to get things ready for the twins?"

"Oh hell, darlin'! This'll be over and done with by April."

"It better be! What about Matthew? He has school."

"No reason he can't get his schooling right here."

Out come the fangs for another chomp on my jugular, "Let me set you straight on a couple things" She stands and paces, counting off on her fingers, "First, I can't just quit, walk away from my practice. Not…not… without some sort of orderly transition. And let's face it Charles isn't going to make up the loss of income."

"Screw the money," I grumble while she bitches up a storm.

"And as far as Matt goes, what about his status at Saint Ignatius? Honors classes, Lacrosse team, his friends. I can't just up and transfer him. Xavier's is a great school but…"

"But what?" I've had enough of her shit and sound like it.

"Oh…mmm…look at it this way; Matthew fits here about as well as a kid like Ty or Kevin fits at Saint Ignatius."

"That's a bunch o'bull!" Now I'm on my feet and in her face, "Listen to yourself, Susan! You're putting status and jobs before your and Matt's safety--your lives."

"No. I'm not but, …. " Her voice breaks as the waterworks turn on. "Can't a woman vent? Doesn't it seem like everything is falling apart?"

Thinking, welcome to my world, I pull her close; let her use my shirt as a snot rag. This is getting to be a habit.

"I'm at my limit," she sniffs." I want normal. I want to go home. Set up the nursery."

I'm in total agreement but she's not listening so I hold her and ride out the roller coaster.

"So. . .," she shudders wiping tears away with the back of her hand. "It's a lockdown . . and what else?"

"You just let me worry 'bout that." My hands softly resting on her shoulders are meant as reassurance.

"I can't do that," she say reaching across her body to touch my hand. "Please, tell me what you're going to do."

"Same as before. Gonna find 'em. Gonna finish it."

"Still no plan?"

Gently, I cup her chin and wipe a lingering tear with my thumb, "When the shit hits the fan I want you to be able to say you haven't got a clue."

"What? Why?"

"Just trust me, darlin'."

Vivid fear glistens in her eyes, "I hate it when you say that 'cuz I know you've got something dangerous in mind."

"Nothing I can't handle." I peck a kiss on the tip of her nose to seal it, "And that's a promise."

"You better promise 'cuz we kinda need ya, Bright Eyes." Bumping me with her belly, she says it with a chuckle but I know there's no humor behind it.

Pressing my hand against her womb, I feel the twins kick. I ain't the type to go all misty and mush but, Christ! I love her more than anything and I wanna be around for her. For them.

I know what I'm up against; how easy it is for it all to go to shit. For a single nano-second I have second thoughts. Maybe I oughtta just gather up my family and get the fuck away. Trouble is trouble'll find me again.

She breaks my funk with, "What about Matt? You know Allen's going to pitch a fit." There's a touch of her usual spunk in the statement.

"I'll torch that bridge when we get there."

"Can I hold the blow torch?" The tears are real and the grin's forced but her scent tells me she's in the fight and on my side.

xXx

We're in underground main security resetting and testing system parameters, when Kitty Pryde chirps, "Hey, somebody's using an unauthorized cell phone."

I'm a step ahead of Scott getting to Kitty's computer screen. "Goddammit! Whose number?" I growl all set to rip the offending teenager a new one for breaking procedure.

Kitty, our resident budding computer genius, clicks a few keys. "Not ours."

"Doctor Jennings or Wendy?" Scott's suggests, about to get lockjaw with irritation.

"Better not be unless some moron didn't log 'em before the welcome mat got rolled out."

"No point hitting the panic button yet." Scott seems too smug for my liking, "This system's pretty sensitive. It could be a skip signal from anybody anywhere."

"Kid, find out whose number it is? And can you pinpoint where it's coming from?"

Takes her all of ninety seconds and she says, "Registered as unlisted."

Figures. I crack my neck to ease frustration.

She adds, "I'm triangulating the location."

We're both hanging over her shoulder, watching her fingers fly over the keyboard as a grid forms up on the computer screen.

Her fingers freeze, "Oh no!"

Oh no? More like oh fuck. The call's disconnected before she gets a fix on it.

"It's coming from somewhere in Westchester County," she offers sheepishly just as the alert tone for perimeter security sounds. A long tone followed by six chirps says something's trying to breach sector six.

Or the friggin' thing's on the fritz—again.

Ten minutes later, I'm parking my truck near the supposed security breach. Not a damn thing obvious. Of course, the cover of night doesn't help. Rolling down the window, I cut the engine and let my senses roam.

Right. No god-awful, ear fraggin' repeller beam whine

Six is hosed.

Flash light in hand, time for a walkabout; see if I can fix it from here. It's cold but the wind's calm. Stars peek through high thin clouds promising yet another snowfall.

What's up with this? A set of tracks. Canine. Kneeling, I inhale the scent.

Well hell! Canine for sure. Domestic. To be specific a very large Newfoundland breed whose name is going to be mud if I don't turn him into the pound first. I let out a whistle, "C'mon boy."

The trail leads to the sectors power boosting station. Whoa! Whasis? The tracks change. Human. Small; almost kid-sized.

What the fuck! Somebody steal my dog?

The scents are fresh, no more than an hour old though I don't recognize the human scent. It's mutant, for sure. Male and adult.

A control panel mounted on a steal post is wide open. This ain't a good sign. Missing dog aside and it's evens whether Bear might've gave chase but somebody I don't know jimmied with security and waltzed on and off campus undetected.

I'm gonna make an educated guess and say that untraceable cell phone might be connected.

"Cyke," I call into my X-men comm unit.

"Copy," crackles in my earpiece.

"Any luck on the trace?"

"Affirmative. Just after you left Kit recaptured the signal."

"Almost got it," Kitty's voice pipes through.

"Definitely had a bogey. Shut down this sector," I report. "Anything on the other sectors?"

"Hey guys," Kitty transmits. "That call is still happening and it's within less than a mile of campus."

I just shake my head. Less 'n a mile which way? "Kid, I need better 'n that."

"For crap sake, Logan! I'm doing the best I can," is ear drum popping static in my ear. Thanks, short stuff.

"Negative on the other sectors," Cyke replies. "But we're checking manually anyway. You need back up?"

"Negative. Got some tracks worth checkin'."

"Logan, procedure says you're supposed to go in pairs."

Screw waiting on a babysitter, "You're breaking up Cyke. Over and out."

I catch, 'Dammit Logan, you know…..' as I switch off. Ya da, ya da, ya da. Deal with it, Cyke.

xXx

"Eek!" The vibration against my hip from my lab jacket pocket makes me jump. It doesn't usually affect me like this but I'm deeply engrossed in a snit. Juvenile, I know but I'm purposely envisioning ways to make my husband's life oh-so- special while we're cooped up here.

Dredging up my professional voice I answer, "Doctor Harris."

"Ah! My favorite pediatrician."

I snicker knowing I'm being buttered, "What do you need, Lance?"

"Your expertise. . . stat."

"Stafford's on call tonight."

"Stafford's here but I've got a fourteen year old manifest X positive. No prenatal care, no support and the whole sh'bang is heading south."

"You need me for the mom or the baby?"

"Yes."

"Please, please tell me Leslie's not on call."

"Don't make me lie."

"Fudge! Ok," I sigh. "Plug your finger in the dam. It's going to take me about half an hour to get there. Text me mom and baby's stats."

"You're the best. I owe ya."

I buzz Logan's office and there's no answer. Scott's is the same. Hate to pester the head honcho but. . .

"Yes, Susan."

"Any idea where my husband is?"

"Checking a security breech. May I be of assistance?"

"I've got to go to the hospital. Assuming you don't want me driving out the front gate, what's the plan with this lockdown?"

I can almost feel Charles' exasperated sigh. I guess there isn't a plan. Well. . . better figure one out quick or I will.

His reply, "Indeed," is typical when he doesn't quite have the answer. "I don't believe you're familiar with the underground escape tunnels."

"I know they're there but haven't taken the grand tour."

"Meet me in the garage. The tunnels are low and narrow so you'll need to use one of my cars."

Ten minutes later after checking on Matt and that dog who's AWOL, I'm tooling; inching actually, through a dimly lit but pristine claustrophobia inducing tunnel in Charles' nineteen-fifty-four cherry red Corvair. How fun is this? I didn't manage to get in touch with Logan but I really didn't try too hard. Best he throw his shit-fit over my going when I return.

xXx

Something's screwy. In a matter of half dozen footprints the tracks and the scent are Bear's again. No overlap or paralleling. First it's dog; then human then dog.

Ah fuck! If that dog's. .. .

A stray shows up. . . just as the kid and her mom take refuge. .

Shapeshifters can't transform into things much larger or smaller than their natural form. So yeah, hundred a fifty pound Newfoundland. . .

Jesus H.Christ! It adds up.

The tracks go on for quite a way leading me through rolling terrain. Tall pines and thick underbrush provide ample cover. The air is heavy with the scent of big water; Titicus Reservior. Xavier's estate butts against the north side of the watershed. It's a beautiful tract of land with lots of places to lose yourself. I know. I've hidden out here myself when civilization snaps the leash too tight.

Clouds roll in dimming the moonlight. Makes it kinda tough keeping visual on the tracks, even for me but I can't risk the flashlight. Lucky, the scent's stronger. Cresting a low ridge, I hit pay dirt. Snippets of a man's voice, accented British, rides the breeze.

Crouching, I go still and scan. There he is, blabbing on a cell phone.

Animal stealth gets me spitting distance close. My blood runs hot and cold; a mix of rage and dread, hearing him reveal intimate details only an insider knows.

I'm being. . ..Make that everybody I care about is being reamed! And I fuckin' never saw it comin'.

He's wearing what looks like a skin tight body suit. Slick and grey; kinda like a Olympic speed skater's get-up. Guess Mystique blue ain't the only color his kind comes in.

He's short; no taller than Susie but he's lean muscled. Yeah, 'bout one-fifty. . ..

And. . . .

Godfuckingdammit!

This cinches it. . . .

Bear's bandana is knotted around his neck.

xXx

Disclaimer: The usual.

A/N: Took forever to get this posted. I am sorry. If it weren't for my best beta giving max encouragement, this chap might still be on the jump drive. I make no promises how long 'til the next chapter. One daughter gets married in October and another next May. That's where my mind has been and will continue to be.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Fuckin' joke's on me!

The dog's a shape shifter?

Fuck! Make that MY dog is a shape shifter. And I thought Mystique was good.

He's so busy spilling his guts, he's got no clue I'm here.

"'Ey, I know my opinion means piss all but like I told ya before, the Wolverine's bitch is well up the duff."

Jesus H. Christ! It's bad enough he's outed me but this blabbing personal stuff about my wife, Wendy, Matt; makes my blood run cold.

A car roars past; its headlights casting a broken beam through the trees before disappearing into the night. He clams up, goes small, glances nervously. "No worries; just a car….Right….Snatch the li'l buggers?...Piss off, Ruchinsky! …..Get yourself another barmy tosser to pull off a stunt like that."

Oh god! Those fuckers! Those mother-fucking bastards!

Rage twists my gut. Cold realizations turns to molten hate. The bloodlust's so potent it takes all my power to control it.

In the seconds he takes to stow the phone in a hollowed out tree, I'm right behind him. "You're gonna die, shithead!" I growl, my claws pressed into the small of his back

He doesn't twitch; not a breath. Just makes like a statue. "No, I'm not. I've got info you want." Sounds cocky but stinks of scared.

"Uh huh. But you're still dead." To prove my point, I poke him deep enough to bleed—to hurt. "Only thing ya gotta choose is ya gonna tell me quick and die quick or do I carve it outta ya piece by piece."

His pulse shoots through the roof and cold night or not, he's sweatin' buckets, "Generous choices, mate."

"Yeah, they tell me I'm all heart."

I smell gun oil and warn, "Don't even think about it, bub!" Not keen to get flipped on my ass reaching for the piece, I order, "Move right, slow and easy."

He shuffles sideways. A fresh adrenalin dump says he priming for action but his options are limited.

"Grraaarrhh!" declares his choice.

I jab for his spine but he's fast and flexible; dodging instant paralysis in a forward, twisting motion as he morphs into a hundred fifty pounds of claws, fangs and fur— A big mother of a mountain lion--explodes into a fireball of rage and makes a kamikaze dive toward my claws

No way. You don't die 'til I say.

Snackt! Back goes the hardware.

Goddamn! The fur ball sails clear over my head!

He played me. My Hail-Mary tackle is way too late and I plow snow.

He hits the ground, hauling ass straight for dense underbrush. Fine with me. Close enough on his six, I deploy the claws and hack a path easy as mowing grass. From the stress hormones he's throwing off it won't take long for him to run outta gas. Unless he's got a juiced up endocrine system like me?

Ain't a problem either way 'cuz the bugger cuts a noisy trail through the brush a blind man could follow. Fatigued and wheezing, his breath steams around his head. Closing in, I almost snag his tail and he knows it.

Can't say I ain't feeling it m'self. A searing tightness in my legs and chest remind me that friggin' explosion took more of a toll than I care to admit.

Push through, ya dumb Canuck!

Sonufabitch! Smart bugger's headed for the water. My luck he morphs into a big ass shark. Peachy! Wrestlin' match with Jaws himself.

Fuck that!

I lunge but he veers left, the scent of raw panic trails like a fart.

"Grraagghh!" I bellow coming up clutching a handful of nothing.

The terrain clears and slopes downhill. I regain the distance lost with the failed lunge. But the cat takes a steep berm in one leap. Scrabbling desperately for a foothold, I eat dirt in his wake. Cresting the mound, muscles tensed for another tackle, I spring and….

Something registers in the ass end of my brain. A beam of light bounces off the roadbed below. A vaguely familiar mechanical purr interrupted by gears shifting. An indistinct sense of motion at the farthest reach of my peripheral vision.

"Whoa!"

Forward momentum of three hundred pounds of muscle and adamantium is bitch to stop. Arching backwards, fighting for balance I manage it—barely. Loose rock and dirt rain on the road below.

He doesn't

"Shit!"

Leaping, he executes a spectacular arc. I watch him twist, desperate to avoid a couple tons of motorized metal. Shrieking brakes and skidding tires doesn't dilute his agonized howl or the meaty thud of him kissing the car's hood.

The car swerves….

Over corrects….

Think I know the car. It's going too goddamn fast!

Ahh gawd!

Sparks flying like confetti, it tips on its side.

Please…..

Metal screeches and grinds, chewed up by asphalt and rock.

Don't be….

Exploding glass resonates like gunfire.

I 'm down the embankment faster 'n a ball bearing in a pinball chute.

Lying in a twisted, mangled heap, the shape shifter's beyond help. He don't know it but he got off lucky compared to what I was gonna do.

A flickering tail light casting a red glow on a cockeyed and crumpled license plate confirms my fears. Two paces closer give me a dim view of the inside of the car. Shattered glass and warped steel forms a treacherous bed on which the driver lay motionless.

"Oh Jesus!" I howl to the sky. I'm a rocket closing the distance between me and the car. My senses shift into overdrive, frantically parsing scents.

The stench of pain and shock are like acid injected into the olfactory portions of my brain.

Shards of glass sparkle in tangled honey blond hair. Blood freckles her beautiful face.

"Oh God! Susie!"

With no airbags and retrofitted seat belt she got tossed around like a ragdoll.

And the twins?

My heart constricts inside my chest as the unthinkable thrusts its hooks into my mind.

Goddamn you fate! Don't ya fuckin' dare. I …..need her.

Get a grip. Trust yer senses.

She's breathing. I see the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

Panic driven instinct tells me to drag her outta there fast. Common sense lays on the breaks.

The car's on its side. There's no easy way to get her out. Move her wrong and she's a paraplegic or worse; makes flipping the car back on its wheels is out of the question.

Emergency techs got jaws of life. I got something better. Popping the claws and about to plunge in, I freeze. Sparks and gasoline are a bad mix. I smell it but not strong. Ok. Think I'm good. Slow and easy I peel back the roof.

It makes an awful screech and Susie stirs. Her groan lances into my soul true as a samurai sword through the belly.

"Easy does it, darlin'. Don't move."

Dropping to my knees, I reach inside, pressing my finger to her throat. It's fast; too fast. Don't know why I know but I do: Racing pulse ain't a good sign.

I smell blood; lots of it. Too much for the cuts on her face. I smell something else. Can't identify it. Sorta sweet and musty at the same time.

I palm her belly. Feels weird. Hard as a rock. Dunno what that means.

I brush bits of glass from her hair but I don't dare move her, "Susie!"

She mutters, "Hmm."

"Whoa!" I move fast, immobilizing her head with my hands. "Stay still." Stupid me. Should've known she'd try turning in the direction of my voice.

Her eyelids flutter as a soft moan squeezes from between her lips.

"Susan, listen to me. Ya been in a wreck. I'm gonna get help but you gotta keep still. Ya hear me, darlin'?"

"Huh. . . Oh!" She goes rigid gasping, "It hurts."

Dammit woman! Don't move. I wanna say it but it's faster, more effective keeping her head and neck stable in my hands. "What baby? What hurts?"

"Oh my god!" Her voice is shrill, the words trip over themselves. "Something's wrong! Logan! The twins!"

"Sshh!" Ain't giving in to that possibility. "Everthing's gonna be ok."

Please, please. If there's anything benevolent out there gimme; no, give her the good mojo.

"No, no! I'm wet." She reaches between her thighs, "Down here."

My heart skips a beat seeing what she can't in the darkness. Her hand is covered in blood.

A rolling boil of panic becomes a pressure cooker buster. "Oh my god! I hit…" Her face is screwed up with the same shock and pain I smell oozing out of her.

"I hit something." Tears mix with the blood on her face, "You?"

"Sshh. No, no. I'm okay."

"I hit something." She strains, tries twisting, to get a better look at me, "What?"

I pat down my chest to prove I'm in one piece. She can't see me glance over the wreckage to the body lying on the side of the road. Now's not the time to tell her what the deal is. Maybe never is. "Whatever it was, it's long gone."

Convinced, she whispers, "Oh."

"I gotta take my hands away to call Hank. Okay?"

"Don't leave me." Her voice is fragile and shaking with shock.

"I'm right here. Promise. Just need to punch the button is all." Glad my voice don't betray how much my innards are quaking.

Pressing Hanks preset number, he picks up in two. "What do you need Logan?" Caller ID tells displays my number on his comm unit.

"Blood?" Susie gasps overhearing what I describe to Hank. "Oh god. Oh no," she babbles hysterically over and over again.

"Understood," he replies after I finish spelling out the details. "I'll be on scene forthwith via the fastest method possible. In the interim you must contact nine-one-one."

"What the hell for?"

Hanks voice snaps with authority "My med lab hasn't the equipment to properly treat an obstetrical emergency."

Fuckin' hell! Never thought I'd hear an admission that the hallowed med lab can't cut it. But goddamn it, nine-one-one is a complication I do not need. Can't ever be just a rescue crew. Nope. Cops gotta come along. Cops plus mutants; make that a dead mutant and one with a rap sheet, if they care to check, equals BOHICA-ville.

"Uhhh-Ohhh! Logan!" Susie goes fetal around the steering wheel pressed to her belly. Her wail and the reek of absolute agony laced with fresh blood puts the lid on my aversion to public assistance.

Kneeling next to her head, I brush a strand of hair from her face, "I'm right here."

I'm told I come across ice cool under duress. Inside I ain't. 'Least not when it comes to someone I love. Yeah, I can compartmentalize, suck it up; do the job with the best of 'em. Don't know whether it's instinct or programming. Prob'ly shouldn't give a shit as long as it gets me through; gets my darlin' through.

Fucking emergency operator puts me on hold! Takes her two minutes to come back on the line. "Please state the nature of your emergency."

I'll give her a goddamn emergency right up her stupid, fat ass.

By the time I'm through I wonder if I'm speaking Swahili or something. Yeah, it's a back road but for crying out loud, it's on state managed property! A freakin' watershed supplying all of New York City! Bet if I say there's a mutant terrorist about to dump poison she'd know exactly where I am and how many acorns I squashed getting here. Rollover car wreck involving a pregnant woman? Nah, that ain't important.

"Fuck!" I growl. The urge to punch something's strong.

xXx

I smell it before I hear it. Bamf!

From out of nowhere, Kurt materializes. Hank's with him and stumbles, nearly planting it on his ass acclimating to solid form.

In the nick of time, too because I hear the wail of sirens echoing through the reservoir. They're prob'ly ten minutes out at best.

"My stars and garters!" ol' Blue exclaims surveying the scene. He doesn't waste a second setting to work. I stay out of his way except to cut the steering column so he can do what he's needs to do.

I tag Kurt. "Elf," I motion him beyond the wreck. Finger to my lips signifying silence then pointing, his yellow eyes go wide.

"He is dead, ja?"

No pal, he digs moon tans on asphalt. I nod, "This is…was our sector breach. Chased the sonofabitch this far and he dove off there," I point to the berm, hardly visible in the darkness. "He's a shape shifter. Susie thinks she hit some wild animal. Cops are on the way so I need ya to bamf this thing someplace safe."

"You vould haf me tamper with evidence disposing his body?"

"I ain't askin' your opinion, Wagner and I sure as hell don't take what I'm askin' ya to do lightly."

"D'ere is much you do not say, ja?"

"Yeah."

"Vhere shall I take him? Surely, not back to campus."

"Know the caves north of the pond."

"Ja but…."

"Much as I'd like to dump him over there in the drink, I can't risk the body being discovered. Those caves are safest for the short run."

"Professor Xavier vill not be pleased. Vhe could all be dismissed over d'is."

We should be so lucky. "Don't worry about Charles. He'll get it after he's briefed."

I leave Elf to do his thing but before I make it across the road to Sue, I hear a string of German invectives. "He is alive."

I growl, "Shit," in German.

Activating my comm., I got no use for foreplay, "Charles, I got another casualty. Have Scott meet Kurt in detention two."

"Nien!" Kurt butts in. "I cannot teleport into a detention cell. D'ey are, how you say, bamffen proof."

I feel something like a roto-tiller plowing through my mind and as much as I hate psi intrusion, it's a time saver par excellence. Charles understands my aversion. Without missing a beat, he switches to verbal communication, "Understood. Rest assured our guest will be well and properly cared for."

Genteel words, ruthless tone! C'mon Chuck, just say it: Things 're fucked up and you're mad as hell.

He shifts gears closing with, "Susan and the twins are in our prayers. Shalom aleichem." It don't take enhanced senses to recognize his compassion is genuine.

"Appreciate it." That sentiment's just as real.

xXx

I ain't the cool-my-jets-in-a-waiting room-type of guy even in the best of times. So, I pace. I crack my knuckles. I scratch, roll my shoulders, pop my neck. I'd pick my nose but even I got limits. There's a greasy imprint where I stuck my nose and forehead against a plate glass window. I scuff my boot on the floor leaving an obnoxious black streak. Then I park it and thumb through a years-old copy of Road and Track. I've swilled four cups of tepid vending machine coffee and made the requisite two trips to empty out. So how come there ain't beer machines?

Fuckin' thing! My cell phone vibrates against my backside. It' Matt.

"Hey kid."

"Mom okay?"

"Dunno know yet. Still in surgery."

There's a long silence before a verbal explosion draws the entire waiting room's attention, " That's BS! How long does this shi….stuff take?"

"Easy son. I promised ya I'd call the minute I know something."

"Logan, I want to be there. I got a right. She's my mom, ya know?"

Christ. I don't need this right now. He's right on point but the lockdown's an ironclad reality that ain't going away soon. "Matt, as soon as I can swing it, I'll get ya here. I swear it."

"I called Travis. He wants to know if he should put in for leave?"

Aw, what the fuck ya do that for? Stupid Canuck. They're brothers. It's what brothers do.

"Uh," I'm stalling. Just don't tell me ya called your ol' man. "Gimme Travis' number."

Don't know what I'm gonna do with it. Handling the boys is Susie's territory and that goes double for dealing with Travis.

"Ok son. I'm thinking for now your mom would say don't everybody hit the panic button. Soon as I know something you and Travis'll know. Ya cool with that?"

He sighs, finally replying, "Yessir."

I close with, "Hey, it's gonna be okay."

Who am I trying to convince?

Summers is here. So is Vic and Storm. They brought my truck. Parked it nice and safe in Susie's reserved spot. And to think I gave her shit about slapping on that doctors parking sticker. They're all making nice; reasonable nice cuz they know me well enough.

Don't want conversation. Don't need the stink of their anxiety stoking my own barely contained emotions. Don't want anybody fawning over me. They could go on home and I'd be fine and dandy.

Shit.

Truth is, part of me is grateful they're sticking by me and Sue. But the other part; the loner, the animal, wants to be left the fuck alone. Don't they know I can't share the depths of my anguish. I can't tell 'em I'm coming apart at the seams. Gotta beat down any show of weakness.

Be real, bub. I'm scared shitless. Susie's in surgery. Emergency cesarean, for Christ sake! .

Seems the wreck tore the twins hook up to Susie. What'd the ER doc say? Separated the placenta from something.

Unlike that little picnic in Canada three weeks ago, the scene checking her in was like an inquisition on speed. We're both freaking' over the twins. She's half out of it and obsessing over Charles' car and letting some patient down. Who gives a shit?

There's people coming at us from every hole in the wall. Sign this. Do we understand this? Do we consent to a double bugfuckectomy? Might as well be that 'cuz I sure as shit didn't understand half of it.

They spelled out the bottom line. Bold as brass: I could lose 'em all.

That reality combined with fear and rage is high octane to the animal inside. It's a razor's edge between reason and chaos that if I don't keep a handle on it there's a real potential to escalate into a body count. The trick to harness my rage. Let it build to critical mass and when the time's right, unleash an unstoppable chain reaction that'll make Chernobyl seem like a wiener roast.

The shape shifter's as good a place to start as any. Seems he didn't suffer anything too serious and I'm told Hank and Electra are patching him up.

Good. Do it so I can rip him apart piece by bloody piece for putting Susie, my kids in harm's way.

For past, present and future sins, Ruchinsky and Diebel are next. They ain't got names for most of the shit they did to me. Any thing their warped minds could conceive, they did it to me.

How's the cliché go? What don't kill ya makes ya stronger.

More to the point; watch out what ya wish for.

It was they who forged me into a walking weapon of mass destruction. Their punishment fueled the Wolverine's fury; made it stronger, exultant, deadly.

I feel it coil deep in my gut; an all-consuming lust for revenge. No pity. No mercy. No escape. I AM the Wolverine. I WILL butcher every last one of 'em and I am going to enjoy every prolonged, bloody minute.

"Logan, are you. . ."

Lost in private inner mayhem, uninvited physical contact, meant as comfort or not, registers as a threat. I whip around, fists poised for destruction.

"Geezus, woman!" Couldn't slide a scrap of paper between 'Ro's forehead and my fist; it's that close.

Almost as fast, Scott and Vic spring into defense mode. "What the hell you doing, man?"

'Ro blinks, stands her ground and calmly finishes,. ". . . .Okay?"

Ashamed and embarrassed, I let my arms fall to my sides. She's a friend, an ally, once a lover and I could've killed her.

"You growled," she explains.

I did? I shake my head and turn away. "Sorry."

"I understand," she replies sidling along side. She keeps her mitts to herself this time.

A sodium vapor street lamp cast an ugly piss yellow glow to wind driven snowflakes zipping past the plate glass window. "No ya don't," I mumble, my breath fogging the glass.

I know I ain't scoring points but I can't help it. Right now I can't accept her empathy. She sighs and with grace and good will I don't deserve, abandons me to my self-imposed hell.

Clearing his throat, Vic tosses a dog-eared magazine onto a scuffed, coffee stained side table, "Any body want chow?"

I've pissed 'em all off with my charming personality and this is Vic's way of giving me space. They take their time shuffling out; giving me every chance to follow along. Hungry or not, I ain't leaving this spot for any reason. Not 'til I know if Susie and the twins are okay.

"Hey," I feel a sudden twinge of conscience. "The diner across the street's first rate." I oughtta know. It's where Susie 'n' me had our first date and where I still hook up with her often enough on nights she's on call.

Summers doubles back replying, "Right. Can I bring anything?"

"A beer."

Over Vic's restrained laughter and 'Ro's mocking exclamation, "Logan!", the Boy Scout cuts me a stern glare that breaks into a wry smirk, "Burger and fries with that?"

Humor; black, lame 'r otherwise acts like a pressure release valve and with a degree of control regained I point thumbs us and answer, "Rare, with the works."

Alone again, I pace the length of the room then flop down onto a dilapidated vinyl upholstered chair. All waiting rooms are the same; ugly and uncomfortable. I check my watch for the umpteenth time. How long is this gonna take? Chill bub, it's just been an hour since they took her to surgery. What'd Lance say? Expect a solid two hours. Feels like a century.

Lance is a good guy, pretty cool neighbor and I trust him as a doctor on par with Susie and Hank. We had a private moment before he started on Susie. He was eatin' himself up with guilt. Taking it on as his fault that she wrecked. It ain't and I told him so. Couldn't give him the why's so I don' t think he bought it. In his place I wouldn't either.

I hear the rumble and creak of a utility cart in the corridor. It's driver, a stout, dark complexioned woman crashes it through the double doors. She nods greeting before setting to work emptying waste baskets, gathering up discarded card board coffee cups and restacking scattered magazines. She petitions, "'Scuze me, sir," before snaking a dust mop underneath my seat.

She clicks her tongue and sighs polishing off the smudges I made on the window, "Sho' hope d' buses goin' ta run wi' dis snow."

I don't engage and she doesn't push. In less than fifteen minutes she's done and gone.

It's just me, the soft hissing of the hospital's heating system, distance muffled conversation from a nearby nurses' station and the occasional crunch of a cars' tires on the snow in the parking lot three floors down. Sighing, I slouch and stretch my legs displacing an ugly occasional table. "Ouch!" Smacking my head on the chair rail behind me smarts.

Half the double door swings open. It's the surgeon. Fresh from the OR, shoe covers and all, he didn't make a sound. I suck in a breath to cover up the fact he startled me.

Sucking air has the added benefit of getting past his often deployed surgeons poker face. He's smells of bone deep exhaustion, sour stress and time-induced sweat.

It's what I don't sense from him that releases the tightly wound coil of fear inside me.

He offers a solid handshake, "Susan's going to be fine. . .

Exhaling my relief, I vigorously pump his hand.

"Everything is intact," he continues.

Nice bonus but all I really care 'bout is she made it. If losing her baby factory had to be the price, I'd pay it. "Thanks. Can I see her?"

"She's in recovery but somebody'll take you to her as soon as she's roomed."

I nod. Not crazy 'bout that answer but I guess I'm stuck.

I've turned the possibility inside out and upside down; if I had to choose them over Susie, well. . .we could have more. But it's time for the fat lady to sing and the question forms a sticky lump in my throat, "My kids?"

Weinberg's anxiety level spikes as he eases into the seat next to mine. He yanks off and balls up a flimsy cap hiding sweat slick salt and pepper crew cut, "I can tell you this, Logan. . ." He pauses, his response slow in coming and precisely measured, "They're very premature."

Duh!

Fingers seize my arm in a firm grip, "But they were both alive when I handed them off to the neonatologist."

I nod. There's no deception in his scent so it's an answer that I hafta trust.

XXX

_Disclaimer: The usual._

_A/N. Thanks to Rhiannon UK for beta duty. Please review. _


	12. Chapter 12

If you can remember back to my last posting, September 2008, Sue had just given birth, nearly three months prematurely, to twins. This event happens on the heels of a car wreck involving the shape shifter/spy that Logan was chasing.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I wanna touch her. Reach out, pull her into my arms and hold her close. But I'm afraid. She looks so small and helpless lying in the hospital bed. Black and purple bruises cover the left side of her face. Stitches criss-cross the ridge of her cheek. Left shoulder separated by the force of the crash, her arm's bound close to her body, while an IV snakes out of her right arm.

Drugs from surgery, for pain, leech from her pores hanging over her in a toxic cloud. It stirs up an unsettling sense of de ja vu. Not from a couple weeks ago but farther back time, another lifetime ago.

Mariko giving birth to Tad. Goddamn doctor gave me hell. Couched so proper and soft-spoken; big gaijin never meant to make babies with small Japanese girls. Asshole didn't get the part where I spoke the language good as him. He was right, though. If Mariko weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet and stood five one in heels that was generous. Tad came into the world weighing almost ten pounds and it damn near killed Mariko.

Like it's useful to remember this now?

This has gotta be the Ritz Carleton of hospital rooms with lots of space, good quality fake wood flooring, soft lighting and it's quiet. Even the gizmo's Susie's hooked up too tuck into damn fine looking cabinets. Over my shoulder, slightly out of view a lounge is set up with a sleeper sofa, internet, TV, a fridge and a microwave. There's a visitors bathroom separate from the one a few steps from Susie's bed.

Still, expensive gussying up can't cover the stink of hospital; at least not to me.

I lightly finger a loose tendril of hair on her forehead, "Susie?"

A drowsy sigh is the only sound.

It's a shock seeing the sheet lay flat against her belly. I've grown used to the baby bump. God, this ain't the way it was s'posed to go.

Her eyelids flutter. Unfocused, watery eyes peer into mine. "Bright eyes!" she whispers.

"Hey."

She goes pale, whispering, "I feel sick."

Her nurse warned me this might happen.

Helping her sit up, I hold a basin and smooth her hair back, keeping it out of the mess.

"I'm sorry," she says, tears sliding down her cheeks.

Stashing the nasty on the bedside table I reply, "Forget it, darlin'."

It takes a minute or two before she's composed, "Have you seen them?"

She means the twins. I shake my head, "Lance said they're ok." Ain't exactly his words but no word's come from where ever they've taken 'em. I gotta believe no news is good news.

She nods and reaches out, tangling clammy, cold fingers in mine.

It's almost too much as the scent of her emotions seems to match my own crazy, mixed–up ones.

"I...," Suddenly overcome, my breath hitches. "I love you," My eye leaks. Embarrassed, I shudder and bow my head pressing my lips against her hand.

There's love seeping from every pore in her body, glistening in her eyes as she nods and traces the track of my tear with her finger.

Swallowing the clog of emotion in my throat, I know I'm inches from seriously losin' it. God darlin', don't do this. Don't make me do this.

Bzzzzt. It's the cell phone in my pocket. Caller ID reading _Unavailable_ puts me on the defensive, "Yo!"

"Lemme talk to my mother."

Wonderful! It's Travis and he sounds like he's got a burr up his butt like our last encounter.

"She's right here, kid," I rasp and clear my throat. Slipping the phone into Sue's hand I move away to give her space. She snags my shirtsleeve, soundlessly mouthing, "Stay."

The kid's in full freak out mode arguing to come to the hospital right now. Fuzzy from anesthesia, Sue's getting bulldozed so she doesn't resist me commandeering the phone.

I'd like to kick the kids ass but I keep cool, "Hey Travis, I made your brother a promise and the same holds for you."

"What's that?"

"I'll get ya here first chance I can."

"You'd do that?"

"Yeah but ya understand first opportunity is not tonight."

"Why not?"

I don't blame the kid for sounding agitated. Would be in his place, but hell if I want to go a couple verbal rounds with him right now. "I think your mom explained it straight up. She's not feeling good and it's past visiting hours."

"Uh huh. Can I talk to Mom again?"

"She's sleepin'. How 'bout she calls ya when she wakes up?"

"I guess. Bye Logan."

"Aw shit," I mutter, snap the phone shut, stuff it back in my pocket and flop into the chair. I'd like to get this kid back on my side but if I can't, ain't losing sleep over it.

Susie sleeping is the right idea. Clasping her hand in mine, I lean back and surrender to numbing emotional fatigue. I manage to achieve a place somewhere just shy of sleep, that half-aware, head nodding but not quite slack jaw, drooling phase of slumber.

It doesn't last. My healing factor, temporarily restrained by the adrenalin high dealing with the shape shifter and Susie's wreck, kicks in full force. A dull ache spreads from deep inside my head. Intensifying, it clusters in my left eye - where my eye's supposed to be. I've been coping with intermittent pain since the bomb but right now I'm running on empty. Things could get real nasty.

Stifling a groan, I lean forward, elbows on knees, cradling my head in my hands. That's it; breathe deep. Relax.

Could get nasty? Nope . . . is nasty. Here comes the cold sweat. Stomach about to revolt, I make tracks for the can.

On my knees beside the jon, it's touch and go for a couple minutes but luck's mine this time. The pain levels off and my stomach settles leaving me feeling about as substantial as ice cream left out of the freezer on a summer day.

The sofa sleeper suddenly looks appealing, if not necessary. A stubborn constitution only goes so far cheating the healing factor from working its mojo. Be smart, grab a catnap now and I'll be good for whatever's next.

Susie, blissfully unaware, stirs only to the gentle kiss I plant on forehead, " Darlin' . . ."

"Hmm?"

"I'm on the couch, okay."

It's after I've stretched and popped my joints, on the fringe of sleep that I hear her mumble, "Hmm-ohh-kay."

xXx

There's a soft tapping sound. "Huh?" I mumble. Natural paranoia only takes only a second to kick in and I snap to full alert with that familiar itch between my knuckles. Just as quick, I re-orient and mentally beat back the urge to pop the hardware.

The tapping becomes insistent. Excuse me!

The nurse pokes her head into the room. B. Jackson, as her nametag reads, is one big woman. She's been my point of contact ever since Susie came out of surgery. A no-bullshit kind of dame, I liked her right off the bat. So, it's not a stretch to forgive the intrusion.

She surveys my wife and softly declares, "Tummy check time."

What the fuck? "She's sleeping," I grumble and seriously contemplate pushing her out the door.

Her tone is no nonsense but kind as she explains the facts to me; checking for signs of bleeding out. Well hell! Tummy check to your hearts' content.

"Darlin'," I finger Susie's cheek. "The nurse needs to check ya over."

"Oh my!" Nurse Jackson notices the sick basin. "Lemme fix this right up."

I watch her, somewhat fascinated, as she apparently notes the quantity of Susie's puke before disposing the mess into the toilet.

"This happens again, I expect you to buzz me right away." She's looking at me.

"Yes'm," slips out. She's the kind of woman to elicit that kind of response; even from a jerk like me.

"How you feeling, Doctor Harris?" the nurse quizzes my groggy wife.

Sue licks dry, cracked lips. "Thirsty," she whispers.

"I hear ya there. I'll see if that n.p.o. order can be lifted, at least for ice chips."

"Thank you," Sue replies as the nurse wraps a blood pressure cuff around her arm.

Simultaneously taking Susie's temperature and god knows what else, they engage in a round of Q and A, the nurse doing the asking and Sue doing the answering.

I'm paying close attention but, "And how about you, Mister Harris?" takes me by surprise.

I smirk at her gaff, "Logan . . . and I'm okay."

"I'm sorry. I keep telling intake they need to make sure they get daddy's names right."

I ain't offended and shrug it off. Ain't the first time and won't be the last.

"Now I know you know every inch of your wife but most ladies like a little privacy for tummy checks." She's looking at me again and I take the hint. The chair on the other side of the room suddenly looks very inviting.

Realistically, it's symbolic; me moving out of the way. Ain't like I can't see what's going on from right here.

Shee-iitt!

That's more than I need to see. Ain't like I haven't seen my share of blood. Hell, I've gutted men for kicks but . . . seeing my wife bleedin' between her . . . that ain't right.

Ah shuddup ya dumb Canuck. It's what happens; part of the process.

"You're looking just perfect, Doctor Harris," B. Jackson declares as she tucks Susie in. "C'mon back, Mister Logan."

"Just Logan," I tell her returning to the bedside.

She smiles and taps buttons on some sort of electronic gizmo. "Doctor Weinberg's orders are to remove the catheter at seven tomorrow morning."

Catheter? Oh man! I'm dying to say something. Payback for last week but . . . I can't stoop that low. Not right now anyway.

The nurse continues, "Don't know who takes over in the morning but he or she'll be the one to get you up and moving."

"Up and moving?" After getting cut? She's kidding.

"Yessir. Believe it or not, getting mommy's mobile cuts down on complications and recovery time."

I shake my head. Guess I should've read the chapter on cesareans.

"Oh, and Mizz Carswell has you scheduled for eight thirty tomorrow mornin'".

Susie looks and smells weary, like she's hurting but she cracks a smile, "Thank you Betty."

Guess that's what B stands for on the nurses nametag.

Okay, I'll bite, "Who's Carswell?

Fading again, Sue mumbles, "Staff social worker."

"What's up with that?

"Standard procedure for our preemie families," Betty says.

I dry wash my face, feeling out of the loop and worn down, "Right." I ain't in the mood for details but if this is means touchy-feely crap I'll stick a knife in my gut first.

"Before I leave you two in peace, is there anything you need?" She zeros on Susie, "Extra blanket? Pillows?"

Eyeing me, she says, "Those fold out beds aren't the most comfortable, Mister Logan. Pillow or two for you?"

"Nah! Thanks, I'm good."

"All right, then," the nurse dims the lights. "You know where the buzzer is," she reminds us before exiting.

I nod.

Susie replies with a drowsy, "Thanks, Betty," and drifts away.

Not sure what to do with myself, I shuffle over to the window. Parting the draperies, I stare down onto a rooftop courtyard. Six inches of fresh snow turn shrubs and benches into blobs of marshmallow. Pillars of ice hang from a fountain dominating the center of the scene.

I need to get back to campus, take care of unfinished business. I need . . . want to be right here; at least 'til I know things are under control. Can't help replaying the past few days in my head.

That damn dog . . . shape shifter was good. Too good and I should've seen it. Never mind masking his scent. The way he bonded with me and Sue; hung around at just the right moments. How in the hell did Charles not get him either? Altered telepathic signature? Gotta be.

There's another knock at the door. Sprinting across the room, I crack it open. This better be good. "Yeah?" I growl.

She's petite, young and cute. Dressed in blue scrubs, dark hair pulled into a ponytail.

"I -I'm Chittra Dave', nurse practitioner."

I give her the stink eye.

"So sorry. It is very late." There's a hint of Indian accent in her speech. "Would you prefer to wait until tomorrow?"

"So what's a nurse . . . practitioner?"

"I care for your children in conjunction with the neonatologist."

Susie stirs, "Logan, who's there?" Sounds like she has cotton in her mouth.

"Chittra Dave'," she answers.

"Chittra! Oh rats." Susie gropes near her pillow, "Did the remote fall?"

"Right here," I fish the thing out from between the mattress and safety rail and hand it over.

The lights go up and Susie grunts raising the back of the bed.

"Easy does it, darlin'." I'm pretty worthless helping her adjust the pillows but she graces me with a grateful smile just the same.

"I'm fine," she says and motions for us to sit. "Ice chips, please." The request's aimed at me.

Chittra declines the invite to park, "Thanks, but if I do, I'll never get up again."

"Ooh, ow!" Susie groans.

Oh shit! Like an idiot, I plunked down too hard on the edge of the bed. "Sorry babe!" I say easing off for the bedside chair.

She motions me to stay put, "'S okay. Just be still."

"Busy night?" Sue questions the chick between crunching ice chips.

"Very, which is why no one has been to see you sooner. My apologies."

Sue flashes a sad, knowing smile.

I suck in a breath looking for clues to how this conversation's going down. Chittra's body language and scent suggest nothing she ain't seen before.

Medical-talk flies fast and furious. I hear stuff like transfusions and ventilators, which I get. I hear RDS, SGA and lots of numbers, which I don't get.

Left out and pissed, I butt in, "So what're we looking at? Are they okay or not?"

"Uh . . . oh. . . Yes," Chittra sputters. "But you must understand it is day to day and this may be the case for several more weeks."

That ain't the answer I wanna hear. "Whyzzat?"

"It's simply the nature of very premature infants. For many it's steady progression. For others it's two steps forward, one step backward."

Another non-answer. "You're saying you don't know," There's rancor in my voice masking what I really feel; scared stiff and powerless.

Susie reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. Dunno know whether the shake of her head means to ease my worries or for me to shut up.

"No, I do not." Chittra's soft-spoken but candid,"Allow me to approach this from a different perspective." Her voice is calm but her scent says I've got her on the defensive, "Right now, they are both stable. While they both suffer common complications of premature infants . . ."

"What complications?"

There she goes with a litany of bullshit that takes a degree to understand, "Keep it simple, lady."

"They require mechanical assistance to breathe. They're being nourished with feeding tubes, medicated intravenously. I'm sure this sounds quite grim but I assure you it is all within the normal realm for their gestational age."

If it weren't for their calm vibes, it would be easy surrendering to the icy cold dread creeping into my gut. But, it's impossible curbing my frustration, "What's the fucking bottom line?"

"Logan, please don't be angry with Chittra." Tears well in Susie's eyes as her stress level rockets through the stratosphere.

Shit! Pacing, I rake my fingers through my hair. "Ain't pissed. I . . . I need to understand."

"Would seeing them help?" Chittra offers softly.

"I can do that?"

"Of course. Someone hasn't offered already?"

No more than ten minutes later, Chittra hooks me up with a nurse named Carole. She's tall, on the skinny side with a shock of frizzy brown hair tied back in a braid half way down her back. She gives off an aura of seen-it-all but she don't seem jaded.

Can't say I'm not torn up seeing the twins like this — without Susie the first time. Seems like we oughtta be together. But she's too doped from surgery so that ain't happening 'til tomorrow.

It's a hike down the a long, dimly lit corridor, lined on both sides with private rooms, just like the one Susie occupies, that ends at a massive center hub – the nurses' station Carole tells me. Oriented like a compass, three more corridors connect to the hub, each entry sealed by double pneumatic doors.

Like Susie's room, this area is decorated up the wahzoo; made to look like a cross between nursery school and a kiddie storybook. We don't just pass into the NICU; oh no, the doors are painted up in a mural with Peter Cottontail.

Gimme a break! Weirder yet, how the hell do I even know the frickin' little rabbit?

Through the doors to bunny land, we encounter another smaller hub. There are banks of computers and monitors equal to or maybe better than the med-lab back at Xaviers. Carole makes introductions but clarifies that she and another woman is assigned to the twins for the night shift.

I ask, "Who's days?"

"I don't know. That'll be assigned tomorrow; well, probably the director's already made the assignments. I won't know 'til shift change."

She points to the left, "There's a lounge over there with a mini-kitchen, bathroom and a playroom. For obvious reasons, the units are restricted to immediate family, usually no more than three at a time. So, the waiting room's for extra visitors."

"Nice," I mutter but I really don't give a shit . . . about the lounge anyway. "What stands for security around here?"

She smells as surprised by the question as she looks, "That's not a question I've gotten before but glad you asked. First, everybody checks in at the desk. If someone isn't on a list you and your wife specify, they are referred back to the main waiting area." She detaches a magnetic key card clipped to her tunic pocket. "You and Doctor Sue should be getting a set of these soon, probably by tomorrow morning when the social worker comes to call. Nobody gets into your babies' room without these."

I nod, sort of satisfied. Won't keep a determined Mutant with the right skills out. For the moment, that's not a problem and it's up to me to make sure it stays that way. Starting with a certain shape shifter who's gonna resemble regurgitated dog food when I'm done with him.

She inserts the key card into a door with a narrow, vertical glass pane. We enter a comfortably lit cubby. Beyond that, it's dim. Mechanical humming, muted beeps and whooshes emanating from the darkness make the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

"Lesson number one," Carole continues. "You hafta scrub." She pushes me right, toward a sink. "And I don't mean a rub and rinse. Roll up your sleeves, please."

She scolds, "Nope. Above the elbows." Pointing to a shelf above the sink, "Now grab one of those. Probably one marked XL."

"Whassat?"

"Sterile gown and oh, it ties in the back. Okay?"

I shrug and slip into a banana yellow paper sack. It smells as funny as everything else.

"The instructions for scrubbing in are right here," she points to a poster mounted next to the sink.

I nod and lather myself from elbows to finger tips. The antiseptic soaps fumes are like inhaling lye and I feel my eye watering.

Carole notices, "Are you allergic?"

"Sorta." It's a lie we both can live with.

"Hmm. I'll make certain we get a different soap. "

"Appreciate it."

It's not the first time she looks me over but it's obvious this time. Curiosity is about the make her break out, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

I shrug, "Sure."

"What happened to your eye?"

"I'm the poster child for what happens when ya play with firecrackers."

Her expression's priceless and for a second, just to be an obnoxious SOB, I leave her hanging. "Nah. I got debris in it and . . . my doc said keep it covered for a while."

She winces and chuckles nervously before moving on with the scrub out lesson, "The NICU can be a pretty intimidating place."

I grunt. You got no clue, sister.

"C'mon." She toggles a switch on the wall, lighting the space beyond.

I freeze dead in place. Holy shit! I've seen a lot in my life but nothing, nada, zip prepared me for this.

A radiant heater casts an eerie orange glow over a shallow, plastic tank fed by an ugly tangle of tubes, wires and hoses. Machines twitter, muted green and red lights blink like holiday decorations on speed. Somewhere under this junk is my kids.

Fuckin'A! The blood pounds inside my skull as a potent flashback surges like wildfire through my head; my nightmares come to life - in miniature.

Keep a lid on it, bub!

Carole's voice penetrates my shock while she nudges me forward, "Even when you know what's going on with your babies most parents are terrified their children are very sick. Thankfully, that's not usually the case. Most preemies are basically healthy though just immature . . ."

So tiny, so fragile. Their skin is like blue veined tissue, almost transparent. If I touch them will they break?

"Believe it or not, it won't be long before you become familiar with the gadgetry and it won't seem so threatening . . ."

Hell it won't! Tension's brewing, threatening to erupt like warm beer foam, "Why're they tied down?"

"So they don't accidently dislodge their breathing tube or monitors."

"How long they gotta be like this?"

"Mmm, all things considered probably not very long but the doctor is going to be the one to give you a better estimate."

Another run around answer! I make to dry wash my face but think better of it. Don't wanna scrub out again.

"By the way, have you chosen names yet?"

"Uh . . . Collin and Colleen."

"Nice names."

Squeezing my eyes shut against visions of the same old shit, her yammering's lost to the chaos in my mind. From the hold Styker's still got on me to what I am . . . a fucking weapon. I'm just fucking sick of it. And this clusterfuck with the shape shifter hammers in the truth. I can't protect them. I'd die trying but I'm just one man.

Carole's got my elbow again,"Doing alright, Mister Logan?"

Fuck no. Everything about this place reminds me of pain, terror, helplessness . . . reminds me of hell on earth. "Yeah."

"Don't beat yourself up. Lots of dads have a tough time in the beginning."

She's pegging me to pansy out. She's right but not for the reasons she's thinking.

She nudges me closer, "Would you like to touch them?"

What? No . . . yeah. Christ! I might break 'em. I shake my head but she's not taking no for an answer.

Explaining, "They need touch," her fingers trace a feather soft path across my palms and between my fingers. "It's calming to them. They're healthier and develop faster if they're touched and cuddled."

With same soft touch, she persuades me forward, "Go ahead, just like I showed you. I promise you won't hurt them."

My god! I could cradle one of them in my palm. They feel warm and velvet soft and yeah, crushable with the pressure I could muster in one finger.

There's a scent I've never encountered before and I suck it in. A purity so subtle and deep it cuts through the hospital funk.

It's their scent!

It taps into the animal; awakens my protective instincts. They're mine! And it scares the hell outta me.

Jesus H. Christ! I AM a dad!

I don't know whether to howl at the moon or bust out laughing or crying.

I suddenly want - need to know everything about them, "Who's who?"

"Pink cap for girls, blue for boys."

"Uh, I knew that."

Can't see much of their faces for the damn breathing tubes but sticking out beneath their tiny caps I can see that my little girl's got dark hair, like mine; my boys is dark and flecked with honey-gold, more like his mom.

Carole flashes a smile and good-natured giggle, "They've got your ears!"

Lacking earlobes, damn if they don't! I close my eyes, offering a quick and silent plea they don't share another trait of mine — claws.

"Ya say they're really okay?"

"I'm not their doctor but I don't see anything out of the ordinary for babies their size." It's a scripted answer but it's honest. She gestures over her shoulder, "I'm close by if you need anything."

I mutter, "Thanks," sensing more than witnessing her departure.

At the sound of my voice, I guess, my baby girl turns her little face toward me. A pair of the biggest grey-blue eyes I've ever seen peek from under a lush fringe of deep brown lashes.

I ain't a sentimental sop but yeah, I think my heart just skipped a beat, "Hey little darlin'."

Soft as a feather, I stroke her little arms, "You're . . . so . . . pretty . . . just like your mom."

My little man joins the party, vigorously squirming against his bonds. "Hey, hey tiger," I soothe with my voice and soft touch.

What're they feeling? Does this shit they're hooked to hurt? I breathe them in. No pain. No fear. Call it an equal mix of confusion and curiosity.

"I'm gonna take care of ya's."

Collin locks his eyes with mine. Damn! Is that a smile curving around the breathing tube? I feel myself smile back.

Something warm curls around my index finger. I glance down and see Collin, my little son, his tiny fingers clinging to me like the gesture is the most natural thing in the world.

"Helluva grip for a little guy!" I chuckle.

Emotion grabs me, constricting my throat and making my eyes burn.

Whasis?

I swallow hard but the lump in my throat won't go. A big fat tear slides down my cheek and I turn my head away so that no one sees it soak into the sterile gown.

Shit!

I slide my finger out of Collin's grasp, "See ya lil' darlins'."

Mumbling, "Gotta go," to the nurse, I rabbit, too afraid of the emotions threatening to drag me down the hole.

xXx

**_A/N- It's been forever and I know I said in my profile I'd be setting up a website of my own but it hasn't happened. So, here's another update. I won't bore you with the details why it's taken so long and I won't try estimating how long until another update happens. Thanks go to the usual suspects, particularly my best beta; she knows who she is. Enjoy the chapter and please review. _**


	13. Chapter 14

_My aim was to post everything on my website but I've had a complaint or two of readers who can't get it or download it. So, here it is and I'll post both sites from here on. _

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

"Goddamn!"

Stuck in a snowdrift, I grind the clutch and gears rocking my truck back and forth. The radio drones: _Hazardous weather warning. Heavy snow, high winds, sub-zero temperatures; blizzard warning. _

Ya think?

Three hundred and fifty horses under the hood buck and rumble. The cab reeks of overheated transmission. Progress measures in inches until tires find traction propelling three and a half tons of metal in a yawing forward motion.

Lucky me, I repeat the same drill twice more plus chisel ice off windshield wipers before plowing my way, wet and shivering, into the half circle drive in front of Charlie's mansion. Vic and I are in for a helluva plowing job once the storm blows over.

The place is lit more than usual for this late. Bets I got a welcome committee.

Uh huh.

Matt leads the pack, "How's mom?"

Wendy, bolstered by Marie, Jubilee and Kitty, chorus, "How's Doctor Sue?"

"Everybody's okay." Singularly focused, I don't break stride and I don't heed Charles' telepathic meddling making for the nearest elevator. The pack hangs right along. Too rough I growl, "Stay here."

The kids with their hangdog faces and the scent of worry smooth out my jagged attitude. Braced against the doors, I give Matt a reassuring shoulder squeeze, "Hang tight a few minutes and we'll talk." Glaring at the rest of 'em, I emphasize, "In private."

Anxiety gives way to frustration and the pack retreats, except Wendy. Wide-eyed, arms locked across her mid-section, she's shaking. Reeking of fear bordering panic, she's sensing my intentions toward the shape shifter.

"Don't," I warn the kid to stay outta my head and keep her shit together.

I don't wait for a reply or a reaction.

xXx

Rolling her eyes, Jubilation Lee huffs, "Oh, here she goes again."

The three of them, Kitty, Jubilee and Marie back away from Wendy like something's about to happen.

"Dude," it's Jubilee again, "better give the chica some space or she'll zap ya."

She does look really weird and she's kinda digging her arms with her fingernails.

"No," Wendy takes a deep breath and drops her arms to her side. "I'm okay. Really. The professor's been helping me. Sorry guys."

Hands on her hips, bitchy expression on her face, Marie reams, "Gawd, you are such a freakin' drama queen, Wendy. It's Matt here who's got every right to freak out."

"Yeah," Jubilee chimes in. "What's your problem?"

"What's _your_ problem?" Wendy snipes back.

All right! Catfight.

Kitty's not saying anything but it's easy to tell which side she's on.

"You are," Jubilee declares. "Cuz of you we can't go anyplace, no shopping, no movies. We can't do shit."

"Well, sooorrreee. You think I like it like this? You haven't got a clue."

Moving away from the pack, Kitty defends, "That's not totally fair, Jubes. We're not on lockdown _all_ because of her."

"B S! That dumb old weapon whatever it is ain't after you or me."

"Um, yeah they might be," Marie adds then says to Wendy, "Okay fine, you say you can feel everybody's emotions or whatever. So, you get ever'body's stressing to the max. Thing is, Logan's always in one snark or another and with what happened to Doctor Sue, he's going through a lot right now. But, it's not like it has anything to do with you so get over it."

"Whoa! Hey you guys, give her a break." And it's got lots to do with her.

All three tease, "Oooohhh, Matthew likes Wendy."

"Well, yeah."

I sigh, "Sheesh," as Jubilee makes kissy lips.

"Not like that. She's my sister. Well, step-sister."

Wow! That shut 'em up. Even Jubilee, who always has something to say about everything. Close your mouth, Marie. You're liable to inhale a fly.

Flashing my best shit-eating grin at them, I wrap my arm around Wendy's shoulder, "C'mon, let's hang out in the kitchen 'til Logan comes back."

xXx

"Ah!" Hank looks up from his computer screen. "How is Susan? The children?"

"Okay," I answer intent to get past Hank and into the isolation cell behind him.

Quick on his feet, he stands foursquare blocking my way, "Logan," he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder.

"Hackles raised, I snarl, "Git yer hands off, bub."

He doesn't retreat, "Telepathic I am not but something tells me you're not on a social call."

What was your first clue? "Get the fuck outta my way."

"I can't do that, my friend."

Sure ya can, _friend _and I'll show ya how. Palms flat, I shove against his chest, "Last chance, Hank. Move."

"I think not." He sounds civil but lip curled, muscles tense and straining under his starched dress shirt says different.

I rear back, fist balled to deliver a lighting upper cut. A hair faster, Hank blocks and seizes my hand as another furry mitt clamps down at the juncture between my neck and shoulder, "Interrogation will do you no good."

Says who? Ol' Blue ain't backing down. Neither am I and emphasize it with a thunderous _I'm gonna chop ya up into chum_ growl.

Hank ups the pressure, "Will you kindly listen to reason."

Sonuvabitch! Carotid artery crimped, specks of light float across my eyes. My heartbeat booms like a kettle drum inside my skull.

Survival instinct seizing control; I become a high voltage adrenalin conduit. Hank's about to get his hairy blue ass fried. Fisting in his face, claws primed, my knuckles turn metal blue, "Last chance, McCoy."

He doesn't bat an eye, "You're better than this."

Fuck! No I ain't but what the hell am I doing? Last time I checked Hank McCoy ranked as a friend.

I stand down and huff, "This better be good."

Releasing, he raises both hands in a gesture of neutrality. "It's not good but it's the truth."

"Spit it out."

"The shape shifter suffers amnesia."

My laugh is saturated with irony. "Well fuck that, Blue." This time I do pop the claws, "I guaran-damn-tee ya, he'll remember real fast." Underscoring the point, I thrust 'em toward his cell.

Hanks eyes blaze briefly, "You're letting emotion obscure judgment. Do you not think Charles has thoroughly examined the man? For the love of all that is reasonable, Mister Jones' activities have jeopardized the entire school. Charles, all of us are as motivated as you in eliminating any threat."

Goddamn! He's right.

"Graagghh!" Frustration boils over. I drive my fist into his desk, retracting the claws at the last possible moment.

Flopping into a chair, I wince as its sharp edges poke into my shoulder blades. Cold and wet, I can't stifle a shiver. I need to think, regroup. I need rest. My head is pounding, my damaged eye burns and waters, side effect of the explosion.

Fragged beyond good sense, I mutter a string of curses then stare into space. There's a lump in my throat as I say, "Ya know what nine week premature babies look like?"

Hank settles into a chair beside me, "Not since medical school but yes, I recall it is a sobering vision."

Clamming up, he fidgets, reaches to grab my shoulder then backs off, "Logan, I won't insult you with empty platitudes. I do understand the complicated reality of your and Sue's situation."

My voice cracks, "Yeah? Well, what the fuck do I do?"

"Are you asking for my professional opinion?"

"Go t'hell." Embarrassed by my vulnerability, I can't look him in the eye.

He clears his throat, "As I thought my predictable associate. Get a good night's rest. Meet with Charles and me tomorrow and go forward from there."

xXx

"Wendy! Wendy, honey." I dash to her bedside for the third time tonight. "Mommy's here," I soothe and pull her into a hug. In the throes of a nightmare, she fights me, mumbling mostly gibberish. The few words I do understand are all about him.

Damn him. Damn what he's infected her mind with.

"No, mom." Wendy is suddenly lucid, "He didn't do anything. He tried to stop me."

Nevertheless, he didn't and now you've formed a psi-link to him that's growing stronger by the day.

She shakes her head so hard, I'm afraid she'll hurt herself, "You're jealous!"

"Stop that."

"I'm sorry. You're so close. Is that why you hate him? Because you're afraid he'll mess things up between us?"

Sometimes I wonder where my little daughter gets her wisdom. "No…. Oh, I suppose so. But, I don't hate him."

"Yes you do. I can feel it."

"Aarrgghh! Wendy, please, there are long over and done with things between Logan and I that are no one's business but ours. I ask you to respect that."

She nods and I feel the tickle in my head recede.

"Mom?" She wraps her arms around my waist and snuggles. "I love you."

My eyes fill, spilling onto her hair, "Oh, my little dear, your mommy loves you so much." For the first time since this whole mess began, I feel like it just might turn out okay. "Wendy, someday when you're older I'll tell you more about. . ." I trip on the words, ". . . your father and me. Now, shall we try to get some sleep?"

She nestles down and pulls the covers to her chin, "Uh huh."

Almost to the door and about to switch off the light, I hear, "You know, it used to be I had to be close, like in the same room, now it's like if were in the same building. How strong you think it'll get, mom?"

I go to her and smooth down her tousled hair, "You mean Logan?"

She bobs her head.

"I don't know. I just don't know."

Xavier's going to get a piece of my mind. He's supposed to be teaching her to control this thing.

Swirling the covers and pillows into a nest, I join her in the bed, "What is it this time?" I mean her nightmare.

"I'm not sure. It fades so fast. Doctor Sue's car wreck, I think. The hospital, maybe. But then it gets all mixed up. Sometimes he's in the hospital. Sometimes it feels like me. And I don't know what's happening but it hurts him…..just like I saw the other night… you know…."

"Shush! Try not to think about it."

She nods and stares into space.

The wind sounds like a distant train whistle. Tree branches scrape against the eaves. Fffwooosshh. Wind-driven, crystalline snowflakes pelt the window making me shiver and I cinch my robe more snugly around myself.

Wendy breaks the quiet, "Do you mind if I watch TV?"

"If you think it'll help." Glancing at the clock, I yawn and stretch. Not long 'til morning. "What shall we watch? Something goofy, maybe?"

She bounds off the bed for the armoire beside the empty fireplace. Rummaging through a drawer of DVD's she holds up a pair. Ugh! Blazing Saddles and Dumb and Dumber.

"No?" The smirk on her face says she's trying to get my goat.

"Oh wow! How 'bout this?" She offers Dirty Dancing.

"Nice." A little mother-daughter bonding over Patrick Swayze. "Shall I slip down to the kitchen and bring back some ice-cream?"

"With chocolate sauce?"

"Always."

Five minutes later, carrying a pint of ice cream and a pair of spoons, I'm faced with another crisis. Wendy nearly knocks me off my feet bolting out of the bedroom.

"Wendy! What's wrong?" Spoons clatter to the floor as I drop it all trying to snag her arm.

Successful, I spin her around to face me. Tears are streaming down her face.

"He's so sad," she whimpers repeatedly.

"What? Who?"

"My…..d. . . Logan."

She didn't almost say dad! "No, sweetie. You probably just fell asleep and had another nightmare."

"You don't understand. He's, he's crying. Right now. He's so sad and scared over Doctor Sue and the babies, and, and . . me.

Oh my lord! This link she has with him is going to drive us all crazy.

"Wendy, come back inside. It's not your problem."

She jerks herself from my grasp, "No. It is. I caused it all."

"That's nonsense. Where did you get such an idea?"

"If I hadn't run away those creeps wouldn't have found me…" Spouting skewed logic, she doesn't resist me steering her back to our room, ". . . and then Doctor Sue wouldn't have had to leave through the tunnels and wrecked." Out of steam, she weeps into my bosom while my heart aches over the misplaced guilt gnawing at her spirit.

"Sshh. You're wrong." I cup her chin, forcing her to look at me, "Listen to me and," I tap softly on the bridge of her nose, "feel it in here. I think I understand how you believe it is your fault but it isn't. In a strange way, perhaps your running away and being brought here saved you."

Brow furrowed, there is no denying her resemblance to Logan. "How?"

"If they'd been successful, we'd never have found out your father was still alive. I would have had no idea where or who to turn to."

She shudders and pales, responding to my unspoken _they would have you and they probably would have killed me._

"The blame is not yours to bear and you must believe that."

"Why?"

Locked onto a thought I can't quite suppress, I know she's asking why the blame is mine. I'm ashamed I don't have the guts to admit my stupid, selfish mistakes even to myself.

Desperate to avoid facing it, I redirect the focus explaining to my daughter, "Wendy, I understand how powerful your connection to Logan is becoming and I know you mean well but you are a child, not his wife or mate or friend. Harsh and unkind as it seems, any interference from you is inappropriate. It wouldn't help or be welcome. Trust me."

xXx

Good nights' rest?

Sure thing.

So, why I am I standing under a scalding shower shivering, sick to my stomach and fighting dual urges to rip everything to shreds or to curl up bawling like a baby?

Nightmares, that's why.

Susie wrecking the car loops again and again. Her blood. Her pain and fear. The impotence, the guilt I feel 'cuz I couldn't protect her is eatin' me up. If that ain't enough, it's the agony, the horror of that fuckin' tank. But, it ain't me in it this time.

The twins are where they need to be. I know this but…..the nursery, nik-u, whatever it's called, haunts me.

Frail, tiny bodies violated with tubes and needles and….

Seeing them like that drives the feral beast inside to the point of fury. It makes me wanna scream, to tear the place apart. I wanna sink my claws, knuckle deep, into the bellies of the bastards responsible for making me into a paranoid, psychotic killing-machine and rip 'em inside out.

Gotta push the demons back where they came from……lock down the animal… get control…….before I do something stupid.

"Grrraaaagghh!" Jagged cracks form in the marble wall around the dent left by my fist but the vivid, sickening images still won't quit. I feel so goddamn useless. Leaning my head against the wall, I give in and go with the flow, my tears swirling with soap and water down the drain.

I yelp as the water turns cold and my emotions flip a one-eighty. Fuck it. Ain't helpless and ain't waiting for any meeting with Charles 'r anybody.

It takes me all of five minutes to dry off, dress and make my way to the underground communications center. Early hour that it is, the system's on auto and I'm alone.

Job one is get a lock on Ruchinsky. Everybody thinks I'm computer illiterate. Think again, kiddies. Takes me a couple minutes to locate and bring up data on Kitty's cell phone trace. Our set up's as good as the FBI though not quite as good as SHEILD's. Guess I'll hafta settle for bulls eyeing Ruchinsky from three meters instead of the wart on his nose.

The New York City grid overlay shows he's holed up at Trump Tower. Tightening parameters shows me approximately what floor and room. Even better is a detailed floor plan of individual rooms on the hotel's website. This is almost too easy.

Comings and goings in corridors are prob'ly monitored but I will bet somebody 'round here knows how to hack those videos. Forget it, takes too long. Maybe I'll just pay me a visit. Sniff the bastard out myself – if he's still there.

Who'm I kidding? Ruchinsky's just a cog on the wheel. Well trained, even my special brand of torture won't open his yap to rat on the real prize. No sir. Gotta think outside the box on this one.

The seed of a plan forms but I gotta do the groundwork. Can I….? It's early but too bad. I buzz the phone in Kitty's room.

Takes four rings before I hear her yawn and mumble, "Mmm. What?"

"Kid, can we keep a lock on Ruchinsky's cell phone?"

"What? Who is this?" I hear rustling, "For crap sake, Logan. It's the middle of the night."

"Nope, it's officially mornin'. C'mon kid, I need t'know."

I hear more rustling and groaning, "Where are you?"

"The comm."

"Fine. Hold onto your britches. I'll be down in five."

"Make it two."

"Five, Logan. I gotta pee." She bangs the phone down loud in my ear.

It takes her more than ten minutes but the mug of steaming coffee she offers puts me in a forgiving mood. That 'n how can anybody stay ticked off at a five foot nothing imp in rumpled pink and green sweats, fuzzy slippers and tangled bed hair?

I let her elbow me out of the way, "Now, what is it you're asking?"

"Can I track Ruchinsky's movements in real-time?"

"When he uses his cell phone? Yeah….we're doing it but there are limits."

"Limits?"

"Like if he goes out of the area, it's going to be harder. And of course, if he doesn't make any calls."

"Has he made any since last night?"

I watch her like a hawk, memorizing what she does to pull up the data: Two calls; one brief, the other clocked in at fifteen minutes.

"They're still coming from the same place?"

She yawns, "Uh huh."

"How do we find out who he called?"

"We can't."

"Shit. Why not?"

"Because all we can do is track when he's using the phone. With the technology we have, there no telling whether it's an outbound or inbound call."

Figures. "Ok kiddo. Thanks. Hey, umm, can ya send the data from here to my cell phone?"

"Maybe. Let me see what you got."

I don't get it half way out of my pocket before she says, "What did you do? Dig that thing out of the junk box?"

"Yeah, well, sorta. My good one's busted."

"Then, the best I can do I call you if something changes."

Like she's gonna monitor twenty-four seven. Guess I'll add buy a new phone to my list of stuff today. I exhale, frustrated remembering the snowstorm. Weather's cleared but the roads are drifted over. Doubtful the place'll be open.

Plan B, then, "Send it to my com unit." This time, I appreciate Summers' anal retentiveness insisting the Team have the latest and greatest in gizmos. "Can I get auto-updates?"

"For sure. Message me when you activate it and I'll set it up like a text message."

Squeezing her shoulder, I say, "You're the best. And keep this between us, eh?"

Grin turns to soft scowl as she nods once.

"Hey, I'm putting ya on the spot, ain't I?"

"No. No, it's okay." Her voice and scent betray the truth.

"Tell ya what. Just show me how to do it."

xXx

"Whoa! Shit." It's a nice save, my coffee from trashing the com console hearing, _'Logan, forgive the intrusion. Please come to my quarters,'_ inside my head.

"Christ, Chuck. Warn a guy next time."

Kitty glares at me like I'm a retard 'r something.

"Boss man wants me," I explain rubbing the back of my neck. Damn psi stuff gives me a headache.

_Kinda busy here, Charles, _I think in return.

_Understood, however, this is urgent._

_On my way. "_We done here kid?"

"Sure Logan. I'll test the link. Be ready when you're done with the Professor."

Charles' quarters, eh? Strange. Been here two years and don't think I've set foot in the place twice. Even then, it's been only as far as his lounge.

The doors of his private elevator swish open and I'm definitely surprised to see Scott. Slumped into an over-stuffed couch, sucking coffee, he looks like he either just woke up or pulled an all-nighter. Same with Charles, though even wearing a - what is he wearing? A sweat suit made out of silk? Whatever it is, his posture and scent, propped sideways in his hover chair says rough night. Sleepless nights seem to be a trend around here lately.

"Good morning," his voice matches the fatigue on his face. He points toward a table near the window, "Help yourself."

"What's up?" I ask, shoving a croissant in my mouth and tapping the samovar for a second cup o'joe.

"I'm sure you'll agree yesterday's events marked a serious escalation in the situation with Wendy. As such, I deemed it necessary to question the girls' mother in greater detail."

'Bout time. "And," I slide into a seat next to the buffet and stuff a strip of bacon in my face.

"Doctor Jennings permitted me to probe her mind for anything that might be of value locating Ruchinsky or anyone else involved."

"Thought she could block ya."

"Very few can completely block me, Logan."

"Right," I don't conceal a smirk. "Go on."

I am thoroughly satisfied that she was unaware of Ruchinsky's and Diebel's affiliation with Genesys. When presented with the evidence, she was visibly distressed."

"I thought she was going to faint," Scott adds.

Charles nods, "Our mind-link revealed very little of value though she did confirm and update other key information pertaining to Scott's discovery. Through process of elimination, she has pointed us toward a few possible leads to Ruchinsky and perhaps Diebel."

"Sure and we're just gonna go talk real nice to 'em and bingo, they'll tell us everything we wanna know."

"Not exactly." It's Scott again, "Marla took me on an after-hours tour of Genesys' local offices."

"No shit!"

"Uh huh." He pauses, refilling his coffee cup. Charles declines a gesture for a refill. "I loaded undetectable spyware into their main server, tapped the phone system and linked us to their surveillance and security network."

Good place to start but no guarantees the big fish swim by that particular puddle.

"Agreed," Charles answers my unspoken criticism. "Which leads me to our next possible lead. Of course, you're aware of Mister Jones' condition."

"Yeah." Still think my special brand of persuasion might jog his memory.

"Henry and I spent several hours with him last night. We believe he will recover. However, the timetable and extent of his recovery is uncertain.

"Get to the point."

"In good time, Logan. Considering what we do know, I feel it is prudent losing no time formulating a viable plan."

"Hold up a minute. I seem to remember you saying you didn't want the Team getting down and dirty."

I said I would not condone or personally facilitate needless violence or lethal force. Let's not waste time splitting hairs over semantics."

I ain't the one trying to jaw the bad guys to death.

Guess he hears me. Clearing his throat, Charles beams a sour look my way, "My sources at the FBI and Homeland Security have very little on Jones. Mutant Affairs . . ."

It's a toss-up whether Scott or I snort the loudest over his mentioning Mutant Affairs.

Charles' expression says he concurs, ". . . begrudgingly confirm he is a freelancer with no official ties to any organization. He has not been linked to mercenary activity, nothing violent, surprisingly. He is simply an informant whose primary motivation seems to be financial."

Reading between the lines, the shape shifter's spooked for Mutant Affairs. Probably won't work for the FBI or Homeland Security 'cuz they don't have deep pockets. "Where's this going?"

"To a suggestion that was made and rejected the other day."

"Dammit Charles, get to the fucking point."

"The point is, after the FBI, Homeland Security and Mutant Affairs declined my request for assistance," _and to support whatever it is you're covertly planning, _he beams into my mind, "I contacted Colonel Fury. He will be joining us in a teleconference shortly."

Don't you mean control? "You're serious?"

"Quite serious." _Controlling you is akin to influencing the tide._

You're learning, ol' man.

xXx

Nick Fury's an imposing figure and no less so on Charles' sixty- something inch flat-screen monitor. He greets, "How do, gents," and the smoke ring he blows from his cigar gives me a craving.

_Don't even consider it_, Charles beams into my mind as I pat my pockets in search.

"Logan, old man, all things considered, you're looking fit. He winks with his uncovered eye, "Nice touch with the eye patch."

"Kiss my ass."

"Ahem! Shall we begin?" Charles prods over Fury's mirth.

Flicking ashes into a heaped ashtray, grin turns to straight faced, "Fire away, Xavier."

Thirty minutes later, we get about as far with Fury and SHIELD as I figured on. Yes, he spills everything he knows about Jones, including confirmation he'd done a few jobs for SHIELD. No, he won't take the piss-ant off our hands. Yes, he's got intel on Weapons Plus but he won't go into it via teleconference. SHIELD won't get directly involved – not right now but, they will provide technical assistance tracking down Diebel and whoever else might be hooked up with a revived Weapons Plus.

SHEILD's price for these morsels? If ya gotta ask ya can't afford it.

We're arranging the set up for SHIELD's courier drop when there's a knock on the door. "Excuse me," it's Kitty. "Is Logan still there?"

I poke my head out, "What's up?"

What's with the cloud of raging hormones and shit-eating grin plastered on her face?

Gushing, "It's Doctor Sue's son, Travis," she shoves my phone at me.

Aw fuck! Now? What's he want? Update on his mom, of course. I glance back at Charles mouthing, 'Gotta take this,' and slip into the hallway.

I say, "Thanks, kid," to Kitty but she doesn't quite get that I mean for her to scram. It takes a thumb over my shoulder and a soundless, 'bye,' to drive the point into her boy-crazed brain. And they say men think with their lower brain?

"Hey, Travis. It's kinda early. Nothing new to report since last night."

"No sir. I didn't think so but . . ."

Sir? Big step up from evil, mutant step-dad.

"I've been granted a four hour emergency leave. The trick is I gotta take it now and I need a ride."

Really? Right now? With the roads snowed over, it'll take a fuckin' four hours just get to him. And then there's SHIELD's courier. I'm supposed to retrieve the drop. Fuck! I bang my fist into the wall.

Scott pokes his head out, "Do you mind?"

My fist turns into a bird.

_Logan, tell the boy to be prepared within the hour, _buzzes in my head.

I poke my head into Charles' suite, "Say what?"

"Just tell him."

"Logan, you still there?" It's Travis.

"Yeah. Listen, don't worry," and I repeat Charles' telepathic instructions, _"The Professor is sending his helicopter. He'll arrange everything." _

Land a helicopter at the United States Military Academy? Sure ya are, bub.

"_He says be ready in an hour_."

Travis', "Okay," oozes with the same skepticism I feel. "Thanks, Logan."

"Yeah." Don't thank me yet, kid. "Later, okay?"

I stalk back into Charles' room loaded for bear, "What the fuck? How the hell am I supposed to pick up Fury's shit and Travis?"

"Unless you suddenly develop the same mutation as Multiple Man, you're not. I'm certain Vic can be persuaded to fetch your son."

Two-faced little turd ain't my son but that's nobody's business. "You'd do that?"

"I am doing it."

And he does. Dunno what strings he pulled, but two hours later both Sue's boys and me are setting down on the hospital's rooftop helipad. SHIELD's courier delivered the tracking gizmos and the only thing on hold is the one-on-one briefing with Fury. That's happening tonight.

xXx


	14. Chapter 15

_Before you get started, since it's been such a long time between updates, let me catch you up. In the previous chapter Logan's attempt to extract information from the shape shifter is thwarted. Tensions among Logan, Wendy and her mother escalate. Finally, feeling a sense of urgency, Logan and the Team put plans in motion to enlist the help of SHIELD to deal with Replications and Weapon Plus. _

_In this chapter, Logan and Sue ride out more turbulence of the family-oriented variety. All is not roses in the Harris-Logan household._

_Keep in mind that even though I started this story almost three years ago(!), not quite a month has gone by in 'story-time'._ [_Is that pathetic updating or what? Can't help it. Life seriously mucks up the Muse.]_

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Wiped out from two hours of family bonding, I groan and stretch as much as I dare in my hospital bed. Logan and the boys have just left for the roof top heli-pad. I've got my fingers and toes crossed and singing high praise over how nicely Logan and Travis got along this time. After the Christmas holiday debacle, I wouldn't have bet a wooden nickel on them being together in the same room. Time smoothes over the rough edges, I guess, and maybe Trav's grown up a little. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful.

Sighing, I'm on the verge of tears recounting an ever increasing list of crap to cope with. "Cut it out," I say out loud to the four walls. "You're hormonal. You're not twenty four hours post surgery. You're hurting and pushing too quickly," is my self-justification for a sudden case of the weepy's. Contemplating the positives isn't working right now.

The bedside phone ringing shocks me out of my melancholy. "Doctor Harris," I answer out of habit, though my usual starch is lacking.

"Hi. This is Julie at the front desk. I'm really sorry to disturb you but there's a courier asking to deliver an envelope."

"That's fine. Have him leave it and my husband can get it on his way back."

I hear muffled conversation from the front desk before Julie reveals, "He says the letter must be signed for by you only."

Huh? I scour my brain for possibilities. I'm not expecting anything by courier. I sigh into the phone, "I'll be there in a few minutes."

With a vertical row of staples in my belly, my arm in a sling and every inch of my body aching, it takes forethought and time to haul myself out of bed. Non-narcotic pain killers can only do so much. Shuffling down the hall, it occurs to me I probably look like hell but I really don't give a damn. This jackass courier better be delivering notification of me winning the freaking gazillion dollar power ball lottery.

It's a struggle but I muster a watery version of my professional voice, "How may I help you?"

Why do couriers always look like they need a shower; two days ago? This guy scores a new low in skuzzy with a uniform that might have come from Goodwill© rejects and he really needs to pick the lint from the dreadlocks sticking out from beneath his greasy, frayed cap. Yuck! Leaning against the nurses' workstation, I swear he was picking his nose just a moment before I spoke.

Eww! Maybe I'll glove before receiving whatever he's got for me!

"Need t' see yo' ID," he demands sounding bored out of his tree.

Seriously! "Will my patient bracelet suffice?" I don't conceal the condescension in my voice.

Unfazed, he quickly glances between it and me, grunts and produces an electronic signature pad,"Sign 'dis."

"Who is it from?" Pausing, I'm not keen signing for something unexpected or unsolicited.

He shrugs, "Dunno lady. I jus' delivers what 'dey tell me to."

Like I expect any other reply? Sighing, I scratch my name on the screen.

Producing a standard yellow business envelope from a beat up nylon pouch, he hands it over, turns on his heel and skee-daddles without a thanks, go to hell or anything. Customer courtesy isn't what it used to be!

Whatever!

Damn! Damn! Damn!

The return address on the envelope is from my ex-husbands attorney. Suddenly, I feel as substantial as jelly and lean against the nurse stations counter.

Julie asks, "Are you okay, Doctor?" just as Logan steps out of the elevator.

No, I'm not and Logan apparently senses as much. Just as my knees buckle and the envelope flutters to the floor, he's got me scooped in his arms, "What the hell ya doin', darlin'?'"

"Put me down," I complain as he carries me back to my room.

"There ya go." He eases me onto the bed and examines the envelope, "What's this?"

I swipe it away, "I don't know. It just came by courier and I had to sign for it."

"Who's it from?"

Ripping it open, I say, "Allen's attorney."

Shaking his head, Logan mutters,"Shit!"

Reading verbatim to myself and paraphrasing out loud Byzantine legalese for Logan's benefit, I think I might vomit under-standing exactly what it is I'm seeing.

"Blah, blah, blah, _County of Westchester . . . Matthew Allen Harris . . . . defendant[s] Susan Harris-Logan and James Logan present[s] a credible threat contrary to the safety and welfare of the child [ren] to remain in the home." _

Rattling the papers, I screech, "Oh my god! That low-down, miserable, conniving, weasel!"

"_This court hereby declares an emergency order granting Sole legal custody of minor child [ren] named above to Allen Leonard Harris . . ."_

I don't need to see any more. Heartsick and enraged, I hurl the papers away. "I'll have his nuts in a vice," I holler and fall back against the pillows, sobbing hard enough so that the staples in my belly tug and burn.

I only vaguely notice Logan snagging the fluttering stack before it litters the floor. The next thing I'm aware of is my husband plunking down beside me and pulling me into his arms.

"Sshh, sshh. It's okay."

"It is not okay," I blubber into his shirt, my rage still bubbling. "This is all calculated. He threatened to do this . . . it's his game . . . he waits 'til the moment is right . . . he knows he's got me at a disadvantage. It's his revenge . . . he's mucked up his life . . . again . . . so, he's trying to make me pay . . . and you know he's playing the mutant card . . . but it's Matthew who . . . who. . . gets jerked around . . . and that son of a bitch doesn't give a . . . a flying . . ."

Releasing a bass growl, Logan interrupts my rambling, "It's time me 'n dick cheese have a chat."

"No, no. You know that's exactly what he wants. If you go anywhere near him, have any words, he'll just use it against us."

Suddenly, I feel a gush in my underwear.

"Jesus Christ!" Logan reacts to the scent as quickly as I feel the sensation. Wide eyed, there's a rare look of utter panic on his face.

"I'm okay. This is normal." I motion for a hand getting off the bed and trudge to the bathroom. I hope the scent of postpartum masks my worry that this gusher feels a bit heavier than normal.

I hear Logan boots scuff across the floor as he paces. "You okay?" filters through the door.

"Yes," I console while tending to my ablutions. It's the truth. There are no ominous signs, though it won't stay that way if I keep going like I am. I don't want to take the stronger pain killers but Allen's bombshell is the topper. I'm physically and emotionally at the end of the line.

Logan knows it, too and I don't put up much resistance as he leads me back to bed. "I'll sit with the 'em," is his answer when I plead to stay by the twins' isolettes.

"I'll call Sandra," is his solution to the custody issue. Arms crossed, studying me, worry lines his face, "You're hurtin', aren't ya, darlin'?"

I nod as he presses the call button, summoning a nurse.

Not two minutes pass before there's a knock on the door. "Well, hello there." Betty's back on shift. She takes one look and me and scolds, "Just look at you. You're pale as those bed sheets. Why's it you doctors never, ever follow your own advice?"

"We don't sue ourselves," is my weak reply.

"Tchk, tchk, tchk. You hav'ta do better than that." Activating the laptop medical recorder, she notes my last dose of meds.

The twins on IV nutrition relegate me to pumping and dumping my breast milk and I desperately need deep rest, so it's a no brainer acquiescing, "I'll take hydrocodone this time."

"Yes ma'am," she says and commences taking my vitals. Clucking her tongue again, she mutters, "What have you been doing? Your temperature's elevated."

"What's that mean?" Logan's poised to jump down her throat.

I ask, "How much elevated, Betty?"

"One hundred point eight."

Logan wrapping his knuckles against the rolling tray table says more than words but lacking strength to engage more than one conversation at a time, I shush him with a look.

Running a mental checklist of all the diagnostic possibilities, I play doctor to myself. Logan looks at me like I'm demented asking him, "Please fill up my water pitcher"

"Betty, will you please check me in an hour?"

She knows what I'm up to and it's obvious she's debating following hospital protocol versus my orders. She nods, emphasizes, "One hour," and exits.

Arms crossed over his chest, Logan drills me with arched brows, "What the hell?"

Raising and wiggling my index finger says hang on a minute while I chug a tumbler of water. "I'm going to finish this pitcher, go potty and then take a nap. You're going to call Sandra and sit with the twins."

He sucks in his left cheek, probably chewing on it. "Right but ya wanna answer my question?"

"Which one?" I'm being deliberately obtuse.

"What's an elevated temperature mean?"

I fan my hand, "Probably nothing . . ."

He erupts,"Bullshit! Can't hardly cut the stink o'worry 'round here with my claws."

"I said _probably_ nothing but I could have the start of an infection. That's why I need you to handle things and let me rest. If it's really an infection my temperature will continue to rise. If I've just overdone it, hydrating and rest will result in my temperature normalizing."

He sighs, "Ya sure?"

I snap, "Are you second guessing me?" no doubt a result of fatigue and pain.

He sinks into the chair beside the bed and bows his head. Taking my hand in his, he looks and sounds almost as rough as I feel. "No, darlin'. I just . . ." His voice wavers and he clears his throat. "I just don't need any more shit to deal with."

Affected by his atypical expression of vulnerability, I feel myself tear up. "I know, I know." I squeeze his hand, "All things hospital, medical freak you out."

His chuckle is humorless, "Yeah."

"Understand that infection is fairly common after cesarean birth, especially emergencies, like mine. Worst case scenario is I'll be stuck on IV antibiotics for a few days."

"Okay but . . ."

Big but, bub. Infection means I'm banned from the NICU, from our babies. "No buts," I fib. "I'll be fine."

"I get that part but there's something else. Talk to me . . . . please."

It's my turn to gawk at him like he's grown another head or something. "How about everything, Logan? I mean, what part of our entire lives isn't in total chaos right now?"

Studying my face, he sniffs then leans closer, burying his nose in my hair. Murmuring, "What can I do?" I feel despair and futility reflected in his voice.

I kiss his bearded cheek, "You're already doing it," and motion for him to crawl into bed beside me. "Hold me while I fall asleep."

xXx

"Yes. Come in," is my response to an expected knock on the door to my study.

Though physically appealing, there are certain individuals with whom, try as I might, I have difficulty abiding. Marla Jennings is one of those. Sighing, I steeple my fingers before my face in private supplication.

Gesturing to a chair opposite mine, "Please, have a seat," I needlessly offer as she assumes the initiative. "Coffee? Tea?"

"No thank you." Her tone is peremptory, just shy of rude. Crossing her legs, she rotates her ankle. Hands clasped too tightly in her lap, her fingers tips turn red.

"Very well. How may I assist you this morning?"

"I'm sure you already know."

"Aware of your preference for verbal communication, I shan't presume ."

"Oh! Well, I appreciate your indulgence."

Ignoring my expression of pained endurance, she commences, "Professor, I need to know exactly what it is you are doing for Wendy as well as what I can expect."

"With regards to?"

"Controlling her telepathic and empathic abilities."

"We've just begun the process I delineated a few days ago. Concerning prognoses, I'm confident Wendy shall achieve restraint of her abilities. With control, I'm optimistic she will come to accept, even delight in her abilities. However, I shan't proffer any guarantee."

"How long 'til she attains this control?"

"Marla. . . May I call you that? Please understand. Every telepath is unique. There is no standard methodology or timetable. Her emergent abilities impart unpredictable variables to the equation."

"My daughter is not an algebra problem."

"Of course, she isn't. Please forgive my insensitive analogy." . . . You supercilious gluteus canker. . . "I needn't tell you what an intelligent, lovely young lady Wendy is. But I will remind you that a young person with exceptional abilities presents complex challenges."

Tossing her head and smiling for the first time she says, "And how."

"Flexibility is key in facilitating her progress. What works today may not tomorrow or further along."

"Yes, yes. I understand. But, how long, Charles?"

"At this point, it's premature to predict."

"This is ridiculous! You call yourself an expert? Say you've helped other children like Wendy? Surely you must have some idea."

"In a few more weeks, yes, I may be more confident in offering some sort of timetable."

"Care to enlighten me as to the mitigating factors surrounding your reluctance in providing a timetable now?"

"The impact of her father's genetic contribution justifies my caution."

"Hmm. That covers a lot of territory. Please be more specific."

"Logan's feral nature, for one. Due to a dearth of research, ferals are not well understood. Surely, your involvement with Weapons Plus illuminated some of the difficulties conducting even the simplest controlled studies of ferals."

"Point taken."

"Combining that with Logan's healing factor, which Wendy seems to have inherited, though at a much lower level, complicates the process, perhaps even the outcome."

"What's a healing factor have to do with anything?"

"It's unproven but evidence indicates that there is an emotional-cognitive-psychic component to Logan's healing factor."

"Are you suggesting Wendy may be afforded a level of psychic protection?"

"It certainly should not be ruled out."

"Oh my god!" Marla cups both hands over her mouth, "Or psychic resistance. Logan used to make a game of thwarting brain washing techniques."

"Correct you are, and resultant of traumatic manipulation . . ."

"The adamantium bonding procedure?"

I nod, "Logan's resistance has grown exponentially."

Momentarily silent, her circumspect expression is a ruse. Confounded over Wendy and still enamored with the girl's father, the woman is a cauldron of fermenting discord.

"Ahem," I clear my throat in a polite effort to keep on topic. "Another significant unknown is the apparent psi-bonding that has taken place between Wendy and Logan. Though he has no telepathic abilities and she does not exhibit feral characteristics, I cannot say with any certainty whether they have or have not bonded on some level."

Animated, the woman gestures with her hands, "Yes, yes. That's the reason I asked to meet with you. Besides the nightmares, last night she apparently mirrored his mental state."

"Oh?"

"At one point, she swore he was in distress to the point of tears. I don't know if it was true but I had to physically restrain her from going to him."

"Go on."

"It seems to me that over the past few days, her connection to him has grown stronger. Aside from a level of inappropriate-ness, what is such unfettered access to Logan's mind doing to her? And with his ability to block intrusion, why isn't he? You must understand why I'm beside myself?"

"Are you able to ascertain whether she's accessing his thoughts or his emotions?"

"A bit of both though I believe it's primarily emotions."

"Hmm. Wendy's empathic abilities are extraordinary, beyond me, and I am uncertain of Logan's ability to block empathic intrusion. You do raise serious concerns that I'm not able to offer an immediate solution to."

"Perhaps Wendy and I should leave."

"In other circumstances, I might agree and may offer and excellent alternative. However, until the Ruchinsky, et al problem is resolved, I'm afraid leaving is not only unwise but dangerous."

"Well, something must be done, and very soon."

"Would you consent to joint sessions involving Logan and Wendy?"

"That's not my preference. Isn't it possible to consel on an individual basis?"

"I'll discuss it with Logan, however, please consider that success may be limited without it."

"If that becomes the only alternative then I insist on being included."

"Considering your rapport with Logan is noticeably fraught, might your inclusion this early in the process be somewhat disadvantageous?"

"What? I'm her mother. How dare you insinuate . . ."

"I insinuate nothing, madam. To be blunt, your unresolved issues with Logan are subverting your own prudence."

She springs from the chair, arms flung over her head, "That's garbage! I had the good sense to bring her here."

"Yes you did. Now have the good sense to restrain your sentiments toward Logan, at least in your daughters' presence."

She shakes her head, "Easier said than done, Charles," and sinks back into the chair. "What is the alternative you mentioned?"

"A colleague and former student of mine is headmistress of a school in northwestern Massachusetts. Her school serves both Mutant and Normal students and is gender segregated between separate campuses."

"Interesting. Odd sort of separation. Why only gender?"

"She models it after traditional preparatory schools. It's an approach I understand but choose not to mimic."

"I actually prefer that kind of arrangement. What else does she offer?"

"A faculty of very gifted men and women devoted exclusively to education."

She flashes a knowing smile. "That is a huge comfort."

"Richer extracurricular activities are another. Her arts program is well respected. A significant plus considering Wendy's interest and skill in dance." I pause allowing a moment for contemplation, "Once it is safe for you and Wendy, Snow Valley Prep may be the best place for her, as my ability to guide her in matters empathic are limited."

"She has someone like Wendy on staff?"

"Yes indeed. A wonderful woman who until about a year ago was on my staff, our cook, actually. But her credentials go far beyond the culinary arts."

"Interesting story, I'm sure. Charles, might it be possible to secretly transfer Wendy there now?"

"Yes, it is within our capability. However, Snow Valley is not fortified and Ms. Frost must be willing to assume the risk should something go awry. At the moment, I believe the risks to all involved far outweigh any benefit."

She sighs, "I think I understand," and sighs again. "This situation is maddening. I feel utterly powerless."

"Rest assured, the situation is being actively handled. Keep your wits and be patient."

xXx

Whispering, "Sorry darlin'," I slide my half-asleep arm from underneath Sue's shoulders. Doped with painkillers, she's dead weight and doesn't even twitch.

Muttering, "Ow," I flex my fingers and shake my arm. Healing factor kicks in and in a few seconds I'm good as new. Wish I could give some o'that magic to Sue.

Chuckling, I blot a trickle of drool from her chin with the edge of the bed sheet. Nurse Betty's coming back in what? I check my watch. Forty minutes to check her temperature. Good luck with that.

Laying in my arms, she felt warm, soft, good. Not feverish. Stinking of ammonia, rotting meat and raw sewage, to me infection's worse than death. Sue reeks of anesthesia, afterbirth and the painkiller she just swallowed but not infection. But, heap on layers of hospital funk and emotions run amok, even my senses might miss something.

All right, got me a list to tick off. Nuzzling cheek to cheek with the mother of my children - Wow! Get my head around that? I whisper, "Sleep tight," grab the custody summons and make tracks to hunt down a fax machine.

Hunt it is, too. My first obstacle is a double tiered cart just outside the door of Sue's room. It overflows with flowers. Nice. Checking out the greetings, I see Xavier, staff and student body is on the ball.

Damn! There are two more carts of posies standing sentry by the nurses' station. More for Sue! This batch is from her colleagues at her clinic and here at the hospital.

Aw man! This is just plain sick! I damn near snap out the claws and mow down a bunch of roses. Restraining myself, I growl, "Mother fuckin' bastard." I'll give Sue the pleasure disposing, wrecking or whatever she wants of this thing from Allen.

"What's wrong, Mister Logan?" Nurse Julie's one of those eternally happy types. The fuckin' apocalypse land at her doorstep and she'd have a smile pasted on her freckled little face.

"Don't ask, sweet face."

"Oh. Sorry." Is it that little shimmy she does that resets that doofy smile? "Betty said to deliver all these later. Is Doctor Sue awake? Do you want them now? It's no problem."

Christ! Perky and a motor mouth. Surrendering, I raise my hands, "Just lookin' for a fax machine."

"That's easy."

She's so goddamn bubbly, I wonder if she'll spooge if I shake her?

"Down this hall," she points right. "Second door on the left is our complimentary patient work center. You'll find faxes, copiers, high speed internet hook ups, everything you need."

She sounds just like a frikin' commercial 'r somethin'. "Thanks."

The work center is probably a converted storage room with three cubicles, a dusty row of shelving stacked with copy paper, phone books and other rudimentary office junk. Damn! In one corner is one of those fax, copy, everything machines that takes an engineering degree to work or a crack secretary to work it for ya.

I'm in luck, though. Directions posted on the wall beside it ought to be titled faxing for dummies. I scroll for Sandra's phone number on my cell phone.

Figures, voice mail. "Hey . . . um, it's Logan . . . you know . . . Susan Harris' husband . . . Um . . . we got a situation and . . . um. . . need to talk to ya, ay-sap."

Clicking off, I realize I didn't leave a number. "It's Logan again. Forgot the number. Sorry." Mid-recitation, the phone beeps for an incoming call. Caller ID reads S. Chapman.

"Hey. Just leavin' ya the number."

"Yes, I just figured that out. No worries. I've got you two programmed in. So, you have a situation. How can I help?"

"Gimme your fax number and I'll send it."

"Okay. You're lucky. I just happen to be in my office. Fax away," she says after revealing the number.

She asks,"Where are you?" while I'm fiddling with the fax.

"The hospital."

"What?"

"Ya heard me. Sue delivered last night."

"Oh my goodness. She's not due for a while yet. Oh dear. Is everyone okay?"

"Yeah. They had to cut her."

"Oh no."

"Got it yet?" comes out unfairly rough but I'm not in a talkin' mood.

"Oh boy! Do I ever." The connection goes quiet except for a couple of tongue clicks. "Okay," She lets out a slow sigh. "What's Sue want me to do?"

"Make it go away."

"I'm sure. They've had an agreement in place for ages. What the heck precipitated this sudden change?"

"It's complicated."

"It always is. Okay. I think I need to meet with you two."

"Was hopin' you'd say that."

"Is Sue up for it?"

"Sorta has to be, ya know."

"When's a good time?"

"Couple hours. Three or Four?"

"I'll split the difference. See you at three-thirty."

"Thanks, lady."

"You're welcome. Oh, and congratulations."

"Uh . . . yeah. Thanks." Hope she caught it before we disconnected.

xxx

Beating a path to the NICU, it feels like I have lead weights attached to my legs. I wanna be with my kids but I don't wanna be with 'em _there_.

"Good afternoon, Mister Logan," snatches me from the pit of dread. It's the nurse at check-in. "It was nice to meet your older sons. You must be proud."

"Can't claim credit. They're Sue's from her first husband."

Her scent and flushed cheeks says she's embarrassed by her blunder. "Well, either way it's easy to see they're good boys."

For sure, one's all right. Jury's still out on the other. I flash an appreciative half-grin, "Thanks."

Double doors hiss open in response to her waving a scanner over my hospital issue ID wristband. "You've got about an hour 'til shift change," she warns.

I nod. That's okay by me. An hour's probably about what I can handle.

Busy tapping away at keyboards and chattering, Chelsey and LaDonna, the twins' day team nurses, greet me with practiced thousand watt smiles.

"Be right with you," says LaDonna, a willowy, knockout of a black woman.

All-righty then, time to scrub up. Shucking out of my flannel shirt, it's easier than rolling up the sleeves plus with the gown over top, it's too warm for my blood, I stash it, my watch and cell phone in the locker.

Nice. They did change out the soap. Potent antiseptic, the fumes still burns my eyes, makes me feel like there's sand in my throat.

"You can wear your street clothes under the gown," LaDonna says as she eases up behind me.

"Kinda warm in there," I say and rinse the caustic smelling foam off my arms.

"No lie there," she chuckles. "Just so you know, Peanut and Thumbelina . . ."

"Peanut? Thumbelina?"

"We always give our NICU babies nicknames."

"Right." Dunno why, but I take offense. "Well, their names are Collin and Colleen. If they're to get nicknames, how 'bout their mom and I figure 'em out?"

"Um, oh. Sorry, Mister Logan." Her remorse is genuine. "It's just that, well, sometimes parents don't always name their little one's right away. We just think nicknames are, well, nicer than Baby two-thirteen or whatever."

It's my turn to feel sorry. "Makes sense. Didn't mean to jump down your throat."

Her lips curve into a thin smile but her eyes and scent tells me she's wary, "Thanks, but you know, Collin and Colleen are terrific names. We'll go with them and then everybody's happy."

I shrug, sort of sorry I made waves but not enough to completely back track.

"Anyway," she continues, "Collin and Colleen are a little jaundiced so they're are under the bili lights." She slides the key card and I track on her heels.

"What the hell's this?" Belligerence in my voice is camouflage for a cold slap of shock and fear. The wires and tubes are bad enough, now they've got blindfolds taped over their little faces.

Reacting to voices, the twins twitch. Over their new-baby scent, I catch a whiff of alarm.

"It's okay. Neither jaundice or the lights cause any pain."

Toning it down, I ask, "What's with their eyes?" but figure it out before she explains, "The lights can hurt their vision."

Makes sense. I nod

"And you know, some babies actually prefer the eye shields. Cuts down on too much stimulation to immature nervous systems."

I sigh and stop myself, just barely, from raking my hand through my hair. Repeat scrubbing is a task I'm keen to avoid. "Jaundice, that's when their skin turns yellow, right?"

"Yes."

"What causes it?"

"Their liver and intestines haven't matured enough for them to be able to get rid of a substance called bilirubin. The lights convert the bilirubin into something their little bodies can get rid of more easily."

"How long they gotta be like this?"

"Usually a few days. Maybe as long as a week?"

"Damn," I mutter. Why the hell didn't Susie mention this? "Can I touch 'em?"

"Oh, for sure. I can even turn off the lights for a bit and take off their eye covers."

Cooing and making baby-talk, she liberates my babies. My little girl breaks into a yawn ending in squeak that sounds something like a chipmunk. My little man, still tubed to breathe, wiggles and flexes his arms and legs as much as his restraints let him.

"Since your lil' girl's off the respirator, you can hold her."

"Uh . . ."

Yeah, print chicken shit across my forehead. Can do. Ain't gonna 'cuz one, I might break the kid, and two, Sue'll never forgive me if I get first dibs.

"Has Sue held her yet?"

"No. When she had your older son's in, she said she wanted to wait 'til you were there."

She did? Damn. I feel a lump form in my throat. "I'll, uh . . . ahem, wait for her."

"That's just fine, Mister Logan. I'll leave you to set for a while. You just buzz if you need anything."

Settling down in the chair between their beds gets me almost eye level with them. Pity, in this stupid scrub gown I probably look like a yellow blob through their plastic cribs.

"Hey, lil' darlin's. It's your ol'..." _Man_ dies on my lips. Don't need to hear that from me. There'll be plenty o'times they'll be calling me ol'man . . . and worse. "It's your daa . . . dee."

Daddy. There, I said it. Wasn't so bad.

Stroking his cheek, Collin twitches and seems to pull away. Sensing uncertainty, I retreat and try to remember Carol's instructions from last night.

"Don't like that, Tiger? 'S okay. Daddy stop."

Gently massaging his arms and legs still doesn't seem soothing so I settle for offering my comparatively huge index fingers to his tiny hand.

God! Look at that. He's got fingernails! Perfect, miniature fingernails. Kinda long, too, if ya ask me. I little bit blue. That okay?

Conversely, my baby girl, turning her face toward my hand, thrusts her tiny pink tongue. Another touch and I swear she's trying to scoot towards my finger. Is that sucking motions she's making with her lips?

I laugh softly. "Sorry lil' darlin'. Daddy ain't got . . ."

Geeze! Bring it outta the basement, bub. Want her talking like a trucker when she's two or three?

"Daddy hasn't got the equipment you're lookin' for."

Gotta swear off swearing and kick the grammar up a notch or two.

"Yeah, lotsa changes coming," I explain as if they understand. "Your daddy's gotta get his sh . . . stuff together. Got some real nasty bad guys he's gonna . . . make go bye-bye."

Holy shit! What am I doing? Talking baby-talk? And they said getting married would change me. I'm hosed.

"After I fix the bad guys, I'm gonna build you and your momma a brand new house. I'll put in a dock by the lake so we can go swimming. How 'bout a great big swing set? Better yet, I'll build ya one o'those forts with swings and climbing ropes, a slide and everything."

"You gotta hurry up and grow. Ya know that?"

This is fantastic! They're looking right at me.

"You got a great big family itching to see ya. Did ya like Travis and Matt? Pretty cool big brothers, huh? Guess what? Ya got a big sister, too. Her name's Wendy. Then, you got a grandma and Aunt Julia. They're kinda grumpy, to your daddy, at least. But, I'll bet they're gonna spoil you two rotten."

"There's a bunch more who ain' . . . aren't blood relatives but I guarantee they'll be like family. Prob'ly closer."

I suddenly notice their grips on my fingers is gone. Eyes closed, they're sound asleep. I suck in a deep breath. My reward is the purest peace and calm I've ever encountered. It's the definition of sleep like a baby.

Drawing from their calm, I'm under no illusions I'll ever sleep that sound. Instead, I settle back in the easy-chair and meditate on this sliver of relative tranquility; probably the last to be had for a while.

Motion and the overhead lights coming up jolt me out of a snooze.

"Shift change, Mister Logan." It's LaDonna with an entourage. Carol's part of it, so afternoon shift, I guess.

Easing out of the chair, I stretch and groan. "Hope I didn't snore."

"Is that what the noise was? I thought somebody was running a power saw," Carol winks.

"_**Only**_ a power saw? Damn, I'm usually better 'n that."

They answer with eye rolls and restrained laughter.

"Give it about an hour," LaDonna offers, "Then you and doctor Sue can come on back."

"Right. What's with this shift change? They didn't toss me outta Sue's room last time so how come yer tossin' me outta here?"

"It's not a rule that's etched in stone, like it is when the doctor's do rounds, but some parents find it upsetting to be around when we assess the babies conditions, perform tasks, administer treatments. Plus, there's a lot of information exchanged from one team to the next. So, it's just better for everyone, makes the transition smoother and safer this way."

I nod, satisfied with LaDonna's answer. Shuffling out, I pause at the door, "Does it mean anything if Collin's fingernails look blue?"

The answer's a longer time in coming than I like. Tinged with a mild whiff of alarm, LaDonna's answer, "In little one's like him, not necessarily but I'll page the doctor and have him checked," doesn't instill the reassurance she's probably aiming for.

xxx

Susie asking, "Did the boys get off okay?" pulls my attention from the TV I just stretch out on the couch to watch.

Just out of the shower, hair done up in a ponytail and easing herself into the recliner, she looks like she feels better. Don't think her head's completely in the game yet.

Teasing, I whistle a few notes of the Twilight Zone theme song, "Couple hours ago, remember?"

"Oh, right. Good grief. I'm so out of it."

"Eh, ya got an excuse. For now."

"Pfft," she sticks out her tongue. "What time is it?"

"Almost three."

"Mmm. Time went fast. Where've you been?"

"With the twins for a while then I mushed over to the diner for lunch."

"Mushed? Oh right. The snow. It's not plowed yet?"

"Oh yeah, it's plowed. Plowed and piled up on the curbs. Felt like a rat in a maze tryin' to get there."

"Fun."

"Ain't it, though."

"You could've eaten in the cafeteria."

"Mystery meat or rabbit food? No thanks."

"It's not that bad."

"The diner's better."

"True."

She fidgets and shifts in the chair, doing a lousy job of masking her pain.

"You okay?"

"Just stiff." She tugs on the strap draped over her shoulder. "And this damn sling is really bugging me."

Exhaling, I shake my head, wishing I could fix it for her.

She seems to get comfortable and goes quiet. With thirty minutes to kill 'til we meet with Sue's attorney, I vegetate with the TV once more.

A couple minutes later, "I broke the news to Aunt Colleen and George," interrupts nothing much.

I grunt.

Another minute passes, "Have you called your mother yet?"

I shake my head.

"Want me to?"

I shrug. Last thing I feel like handling is Queen Elizabeth's dramatics.

"It's not a problem if Aunt Colleen comes for a few weeks to help out, is it?"

"Huh? What for?"

"Helping with housekeeping, cooking. Free us up to be with the twins."

"Not much for her t'do."

"Oh, I know but she's a comfort and an extra pair of hands 'til I can hire full-time help."

Something in her voice says I'm being boxed into a corner. "Whadaya need that for. There's a whole school full o'volunteers."

There's a snarky edge to her voice, "That's not going to cut it. At some point we'll be needing a live-in nanny and I know I'm going to need the housekeeper on a weekly basis."

"Are you serious?"

"Completely"

"Well, I guess Charles'll prob'ly know somebody."

"I plan on asking him."

Is that pissed off I sense from her?

I suggest, "No rush, at least for a couple weeks. We'll make do just fine and it shouldn't be too tough getting your Aunt cleared."

"Whoa Logan."

Yep, pissed off.

"We're not going back to Xavier's to live."

And determined. Damn! Should have seen this coming

"Yeah, we are. At least 'til I settle things."

Peeved and determination escalates to full-blown bitch out, "Well, you better settle things fast because I'm going back to my house."

"What the hell's that mean?"

"I'm. Going. Home."

Is it spouse abuse if I turn her butt up and spank her?

"Darlin', I thought we had this settled."

"Not quite and with the twins coming early, well, they change everything"

I feel where she's coming from but damn if I can snap my fingers and change the situation.

"Sue, ya gotta believe me, the lockdown's more critical than you know."

"Screw the lockdown. That a major reason why I want to go home. I've got to be free to come and go while the twins are here."

"I know and I'll work it out. I promise. How many days 'til ya come home?"

"Four more days. Maybe five."

"Okay. I'll get it settled by then."

"How?"

"I'm working on it. I just need you to sit tight and not go ballistic on me if I'm not around as much as you want for the next couple days."

Tilting her head sideways, she beams a cool stare at me, "What details?"

"Trust me. It's safer if ya don't know."

"Oh right. If you tell me you hafta kill me." Slapping her palms against the chairs' armrests, she shouts, "That's bullshit, Logan."

I slam one fist into another, "Allright. Fine," then lacing my fingers together, I crack my knuckles." Nothing's set in stone right now but I'll tell ya what I can soon as I can."

"And when might that be?"

"Maybe t'morrow."

"Maybe tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I got a meeting set up with somebody."

"Who is somebody?"

The bedside phone rings. Sue grabs it, "Yes . . . Oh, thank you. Can someone bring her here?"

Sue nods in reply to me asking, "Sandra?"

"I'll get her," I volunteer for a long list of reasons.

xxx

"Darlin', I'm sorry . . . "

"Don't," she slaps my outstretched hands away.

Retreating like I've been doused in flame, I explain, "There's no other way."

Hands pressed together, head bowed, her voice quivers, "Maybe. Maybe not. All I know right now is that I'm beyond furious. I think you should go."

Rubbing the back of my neck, I sigh, "Yeah . . . okay."

I'm in the dog house and I deserve it. Tough as it is, Matt's safer with his father. But, it's killing me having her feel like I've sold her down the river.

She's crying again, soft, almost soundless sobs that tear into my heart. Murmuring, "Sorry," for the hundredth time, I smooth my hand over her hair.

She flinches, turns her back on me and whimpers, "So am I. Now just give me some space."

"I'll fix this, Susie. By the time you're ready to come home, I'll fix it all. I promise." Slinging my jacket over my shoulder, I shuffle towards the door.

"Logan," her voice quakes. "You didn't tell me who you're meeting with tonight."

Leaning against the doorframe, I stare at the floor, acutely aware that she's not going to like my answer. Reluctantly, my eyes, meet hers, "Nick Fury."

"Oh. My. God. Nick Fury, as in SHIELD Nick Fury?"

"Uh huh"

"Are you crazy? Why him?"

"Cuz he knows how to find Ruchinsky and maybe Luc Diebel."

Closing her eyes, she rocks her head from side to side, "I still hold that bastard partially responsible for you being hurt New Years Eve. Please, please be careful."

I nod. "I love ya. Be back soon as I can, okay."

"O - okay. Promise me one more thing?"

"Anything, darlin'."

"Before you do whatever it is, come back so we can hold Colleen and Collin."

Answering, "Okay," I'm anything but confident I can live up to it. My gut says whatever Fury's got on Ruchinsky and Dieble ain't gonna keep.

Latching the door closed and leaving it, leaving her like this, I feel split in two. Wolverine, protective of all that is his, lusts for bloody revenge. Logan, sick of looking over his shoulder and yearning for normal, wishes it'd all go away.

Crunching over packed down snow on my way to the station, I shiver as the wind bites to the bone. Fuckin' train better be running. Stomping their feet and complaining, a huddle of thickly wrapped and padded travelers crowd into the glassed enclosed platform next to the tracks. Preoccupied, I keep my distance.

Time to get into the game. Do what I do best.

XXX

**A/N: _Disclosure time: I don't own, Marvel does. I'm just playing. Getting rich? Not hardly. _**

**_I'm not begging now, but reviews are always welcome and taken to heart. _**

**_C'mon Comic-Cake and Wolverette, Moviemom lay some comments on me, please. Cap McK I always love your feedback. QueenOfOld, I haven't heard anything from you. What ya think? There's a few of you who have favorited me but haven't said specifically why. Please do.  
_**

**_Okay, okay...I guess I'm begging. Everybody likes a little attention sometime.  
_**

**_Oh, guess what? For all you Hugh fans, he's fixin' to start filming Wolverine-the Japan story right after the first of this coming year. Yay, yippee-skippee. Can't wait for 2012 release.  
_**


	15. Chapter 16

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Peachy. Just fuckin' peachy. I glance up at the numbers above the door for a second time. The place is shuttered up tight. Sign says Closed For Business. Swiping the grime off the window with my jacket sleeve, I peer inside. No sign or scent of anything at the main entrance so I duck around back, sticking close to the early dusk shadows. Again, nada.

Yanking the phone from my pocket, scrolling for Charles' number, from behind a voice comes out of nowhere, "Long time, brother."

Stock still, nostril flaring, I parse the scent. Friend or foe?

Easing the phone backing into my jacket, I growl, "Ain't got a brother. Wanna try again." Cheap aftershave renders his scent elusive though I've heard his voice before.

"Yeah, well . . . I don't mean bro' in the blood sense."

"Who the hell are ya?" Twisting a controlled one-eighty, I deploy the personal hardware.

He jumps back. Arms high overhead in surrender, he shouts, "Whoa!" the same second I recognize him.

"Shit!" The claws snap back. "Wraith? John Wraith!" Now I understand how he managed to get under my radar. "You idiot. I could've skewered ya, ya know?"

"Never been that fast, Logan." He sticks out his right hand and I reciprocate.

"I'm just glad ya actually remember me. Word eventually got around what happened to ya."

"You're damn lucky I did. Not everything's come back. So, uh, this little meet up ain't coincidence , is it? You're working for Fury."

"Yep. I handle special transport needs for da man."

The memory and my fierce objection comes a fraction too late. One second, I'm standing on an empty, cold, concrete parking lot; a second later, stumbling like a drunk, I'm trying my damnedest not to spew lunch all over polished industrial tile flooring. Eyes squeezed shut, I'm hunched over breathing slow and deep. "I'll . . . get ya . . . for that."

"Wanna bucket?" Wraith mocks.

I wave him off, "I'm good." Senses back on line, I straighten up and realize I've got an audience. No surprise, Fury's sucking on a stogy and smirking like a hyena.

Ah shit! If it ain't Rust bucket himself. Tony Stark, standing at Fury's right, is an unwelcome surprise.

"What're you lookin' at, asshole?" I'm talking to both of them.

Fury's fast to reply, "A shit pile o'trouble," and offer a handshake.

Arms crossed, Stark smoothes the fuzz on his chin. He answers, "Not much," with a cocksure smirk that I'd just as soon carve off his face.

I keep my hands at my sides, "Where the hell'm I?"

"Couple hundred feet underneath the UN, compadre."

SHIELD HQ? I don't conceal my surprise, "This better be good."

I sort of remember the drill and fall in a pace behind. At fifty paces I pick up a familiar gamey scent and stop dead in my tracks. "What's Creed doin' here?" I grumble.

"Same as you," Fury replies without breaking stride.

Cutting around, I force them to halt. "Wraith, Rust bucket, Creed? Who else and what the hell's goin' on?" I cross my arms over my chest. This party ain't going nowhere 'til I get answers.

It's Stark who smarts off, "First off, this op's been in the works for a couple of months. Second, if I had my way, you aren't even on the short list of go-to guys." Stark's on a roll, shooting Fury a frigid glare, "But we all know how it goes when Xavier calls in his chips."

"Don't give a shit about callin' in chips or plans. I work alone. And Stark, you can take that short list o'yours . . ."

"Can it," Fury snaps.

Wraith this time, "You're not the only one with a score to settle, Logan. We've all had our lives screwed up by Diebel and Ruchinsky."

Fury attempts to appease with, "Logan, gimme thirty minutes and I think you'll have all your questions answered."

I'm not paranoid thinking I'm being drafted but the sonofabitch has me over a barrel. I need his intel. "Make it fifteen," I grumble.

Another hundred paces or so, sterile, non-descript corridors give way to a conference room that is anything but. Wood paneling, floor to ceiling bookshelves, huge, heavy, polished wooden table with high backed, leather chairs seems like a leap back in time.

And the chairs aren't vacant. One look at the motley crew assembled like ducks in rows, I don't think I'm about to be drafted. I know I am. Muttering, "fuckin' ay," I shake my head.

"Take a seat," Fury commands.

Obviously lusting for top dog status, Stark settles at the head of the table on Fury's right. Suck it up, rich boy. SHIELD command isn't something your bucks can buy.

Wraith settles beside a shockingly feeble David North. What ever's ailing him, I can't place it by scent. I nod my head in greeting and respect for my former team mate and friend.

SHIELD ops, a few I definitely remember, most I don't, make up the rest of this bunch. Common denominator is Weapons Plus. We've all been on the payroll in one capacity or another.

Almost like a kick in the teeth is the painful reality of who's not here. Talented and skilled, some good people, some not, they're either incapacitated like Maverick, dead, disappeared or gone rogue.

Goddamn!

Sitting at briefings is something I don't do. Goes double when the open seat is next to Creed. Leaning against a cabinet by the exit's the best they're going to get. I point to my wristwatch, "Time's wastin'."

xXx

I punch the wall. I pace. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I mutter to no one. I'm drafted, conscripted, shanghaied.

Don't give a flying fuck if . . . Shit! Yeah, I do. The basic plan's good, as good as any I'd come up with. But the whole thing still could go tits up depending on whose running the show. Funny how nobody's mentioned that minor detail.

Creed and Stark are a problem. Don't know what kind of short leash Creed's tied to but I don't trust it. More times than not, he's turned a surgical strike into a butchering. His bloodlust makes my berserker seem like practice.

And Stark? What the fuck does he want in for? Ego boost, glory, control? Share of the spoils? All of the above, for sure. With no ties to Weapon Plus, I resent him and his tin can tuxedo butting the hell in.

I pace and cuss some more. Stretching my arms overhead, I lace my fingers and crack my knuckles.

Boot steps squeak against polished tile floors and they aren't mine. Lingering cigar smoke, expensive aftershave and a person's unique scent tells me just who's invading my space.

"Take a swing at me, if ya want." Reflected on the polished wall, I see Fury. With hands on hips and jaw thrust forward, he's just out of reach.

It'd be so fucking easy to smash his head like a ripe tomato. I spin and fake a punch just watch him flinch. Smart ass stands pat. We know each other too well.

"What part of I work alone don't ya get, Nick?"

"Yeah, you work alone. I hear. Not this time." He points toward a pair of tinted glass doors, "C'mon to my office. Let's hash this out."

Fuming, I lag behind a few paces imagining me putting him, face first, through those expensive glass doors. Nice thought, but I know they're bomb-proof.

Just like the conference room, Fury's office with its hardwood, leather and pricey carpet, harkens back to another era. Like me Fury hasn't aged. Unlike me, it's not due to mutation. He's the wunderkind of a World War Two super soldier project.

Stationed beneath a painting of . . . who is that? Geeze, General Patton! It's a wet bar and Fury wastes no time popping open a decanter. Pouring two shots into sturdy glasses, I can smell the good stuff from where I stand.

Yeah, man! Rank has a few perks. Still don't make up for the ass kissing it takes to get there.

He passes a glass to me, "Cheers."

I raise my glass, "This ain't gonna change my mind," then swallow. Strong and smooth, I let the amber fluid play on my tongue then swallow, savoring the mellow burn settling in my belly.

He settles into a behemoth of a leather chair behind his desk and motions me into a seat. That's not happening, so I lean against his fancy bar. "Talk," I demand.

He shrugs and gets down to business, "On the level, Logan, this isn't something you can do alone. It's huge."

Think I haven't considered that? "Watch me."

"You know full well Weapon Plus has made good use of the last twenty years. They got stuff that'll take you down before you know it's coming."

"I'll handle it." That's my ego talking.

"From what I hear, you got too much at stake for a suicide mission . . . and that's what this is if you go it alone."

Both my arms braced on the edge of his desk, teeth bared, I'm in his face, "You don't know shit about what's at stake."

He turns his computer screen around. Wendy's picture beams at me.

"She's not the only one," he adds quietly.

Points taken, backed into another corner but not about to admit it, I ease into the chair he offered and dry wash my face. "Nice speech, Nick. Now, considerin' I wasn't on the short list, what the fuck ya want from me?"

"Stark's full of it. You're always on _**my**_ short list."

"Just like the last time, eh? You get a promotion and I get an execution."

"Like hell! I did everything I could to fix that mess, including stealing your 'dead' body and getting you the hell out of there. From what I heard, you did pretty well for yourself afterwards.

"Depends on yer definition of doin' well, eh?" Safer to agree to disagree, it's a silent stare down for a couple seconds. "Now, where do I fit into this circus?"

"Top of the heap, ol' man. Command."

No shit! He's got my interest but, I keep an even strain. "I pick my people."

He doesn't hesitate. "Agreed."

"We do what needs to be done. No recrimination."

"That's why I pick you."

"I wanna see all the intel."

"A given."

"I need twenty four, nah, twelve hours t'take care o'some business."

That throws him, if a squinty eyeball is the clue it used to be. After a beat, he agrees, "Adjustments can be made."

I push my luck with, "Take the damn shape shifter off o'Xavier's hands."

"Already done."

"'Zat so? Square that up with, quote, not SHIELD's problem, unquote."

"What can I say? Changed my mind."

Shaking my head, I don't quite buy it. But I don't give a shit as long as the creepy little bastard can't fuck us over again.

This is too easy, too much give on Fury's part. "Alright. Spring the trap. What's this gonna cost?"

No hesitation, he looks me dead in the eye, "I want you back."

No hesitation, I lean in close, "Fuck you."

"Hear me out, dammit. Not as a full time op, no point repeating that cluster fuck. But, from time to time, when a need arises, I want you on top of that short list. Besides, you're under-utilized working for Xavier and you know it."

"Right, but does Xavier know about this?"

"He's a goddamn omega teep. What do you think?"

"I think ya found a way to block a shit load o'details from 'im."

"Let's just say he didn't ask."

"And if I say no?"

He points, "The exit is that way, but lemme give you a friendly warning. You decline, you stay the hell out of our way."

I slam my palms on his desk, "Fuck you!"

Out of the chair, I pace again. An all or nothing proposition, he's got all the aces and me by the short hairs. And that's the real crux of it. I need him, need his information, more than he needs me.

I stalk to the bar, pop the topper and swill straight from the decanter. "Fuck," I growl as the booze only heightens frustrations' fire in my gut.

Leaning back in his chair, Fury's banal expression belies the keenness in his eye. For a second I debate throwing the decanter but that'd be a shameful waste of fine whiskey. I've made deals with devils before. As devils go, SHIELD's a lesser demon.

"Alright. But, Xavier's X-Men come first."

"Figured you'd say that and I'm on board with that stipulation."

"And if you think I'm putting on a uniform, think again."

He winks, "Knowing how you abuse gear, wouldn't waste the taxpayers money."

I drop my voice, "And you involve my wife and my kids, you even think about 'em, I'll kill. . . ."

His voice and expression is solemn, "You and everybody else back in that conference room, Logan, are preaching the same gospel, chapter and verse."

I'd keep up the diatribe, if only to vent my spleen, but Fury's scent says he's honest. To save time and energy, I throttle back but still have another nagging question.

"Nick, why now?"

"Why go after Weapon Plus or why bring you in?"

"Both."

"Short answer is Xavier."

No surprise there. Buy into SHIELD's plan, loan out his alpha dog and Xavier keeps his hands clean.

"And I guess you could thank your deceased . . . father in law, is it? Talk about ironic."

"Topic off limits, bub."

Fury shakes his head, "I don't give a damn about your personal life."

"Good. Now, besides Migraine Monday,* how did Stryker fit into the game?"

"Look at it this way; Stryker was to anti-mutant factions as Bin Laden is to Al Qaeda. Migraine Monday was one helluva wake up call. It forced us to completely re-evaulate and re-direct a lot of our efforts."

"Why? 'Cuz Magneto flipped Stryker's plan a one-eighty?"

"Ever the cynic, compadre but not totally off base. Socio-politico dynamics between Normals and Mutants is, um . . . complex."

"For chrissake! When did you starting towing the p.c. line? If Stryker had succeeded, he'd be given a medal and probably be elected President."

"Like I said, Stryker gave us a helluva wake up call. When this mission's over we can solve the world's problems over a couple of Cubans and a bottle of Irish."

"Better make it two bottles."

He grins and shakes his head, "Anyway, remember those files of Stryker's that the X-Men turned over to the President?"

"Yeah. Didn't get a chance to look 'em over."

"Trust me when I say they turned out to be a load of dynamite. Part manifesto, part genocide blueprint, it's in the briefings I promised you. When we got wind of renewed recruiting efforts, the planning shifted into high gear. Xavier's intel and assets are the fuse and detonator to blow Weapon Plus to hell."

"Sounds like the first salvo of an all out war."

"We're preventing an all out war."

"Don't bullshit me. We both been there, got the scars, I got body armor to prove it. I ain't interested in joining any side but my own. I'm in this to take out a specific target and that's it."

"Until the next permutation comes along."

"I'll burn that bridge if I come to it."

"Not if, Logan. When."

Glancing down at my boots, I murmur, "Yeah." Smacking the wall with my palm, my eye boring into his, "We're burning time. Let's nuke the Weapon Plus bridge to hell," I take charge.

XXX

_**A/N:** *Migraine Monday is credited to RhiannonUK from FULL METAL ANARCHY, if I remember correctly. Might be A FORCE OF NATURE, though. Either story, she came up with a great pseudonym for what Stryker and Magneto caused with the manipulation of Cerebro in X2._

_Believe it or don't, I had planned when I first outlined this story to include Team X. SHIELD's involvement came later, inspired by Joegood's story PICKING UP THE PIECES. I must admit that IRON MAN AND XMOW had a share of influence. However, Maverick is not the same character as in XMOW. My Maverick, David North is modeled after the original comic verse East German descended character. John Wraith, aka Kestrel is more in line with XMOW. I still haven't got my head around Creeds incarnation. Call him a cross between Liev Shrieber and Daniel Mane[is that his name?] Logan and Victor Creed are NOT brothers. _

_As always, reviews are well appreciated and while it embarrasses me to say that reviews stimulate the Muse, it is true. Reviews do stoke the ego or cause me to strive to do better, depending on the feedback. _


	16. Chapter 17

A/N _ By now, it's a fair assumption that many of my faithful readers think I've abandoned this story. Not quite and thank you for sticking with me. So much has conspired against me to write in any prolific way. I won't bore you with details. This chapter attempts to tie up the loose ends in the ongoing melodrama that is Logan's and Sue's personal life. No, the problems aren't solved but after this chapter, it's full focus on the mission to destroy Logan's current nemesis and Weapon Plus. That's the good news. The not so good news is I haven't even begun intelligible notes for the the upcoming chapters. Writing in the genre of action is a steep, new learning curve for me. Therefore, I make to predictions on how long it will take. I'm not going to rush myself and I am committed to the same quality writing I always strive for. Enough babble. On with:_

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Second time's a charm and I don't even stumble as Wraith and I teleport into one of pens outside Xavier's barn. Movement sets of security lights blinding us for a second or two and set some of the horses to snorting.

The snowdrift up to our knees we both can do without, "What part of the barn didn't ya get?"

His breath steams in the frigid air, "Chill man. Gotta get the lay o'the land first time in. Wanna end up starin' at the ass end of a horse?"

Point taken. I chuckle and shake my head, grateful for the snowdrift instead of a manure pile or a kick in the teeth.

"Same pick up t'morrow?"

"Hell no." It's a fair hike as I lead him to the garage. A quick sequence of numbers on a keypad opens a side door.

"How 'bout here?"

Wraith exhales a low whistle, "Damn! Some fine rides ya got here." He runs a loving hand over the hood of Scott's latest toy, a metallic blue Prowler.

I snort as he asks, "Any o'these yours?" and points to the wrecked Harley in the corner.

"And that black pick-up parked outside."

He winces, "What up wi' da bike, bro'? "

"Long story."

He agrees, "Always is," and offers a handshake, "Later, Wolverine."

"Yeah. Fifteen hundred hours, me and Cyke right?"

Grinning, he nods, wavers and is gone. Now why the hell can't Kurt quit with the damn sulphur stink bamf?

Trudging to the back kitchen entrance, the weight of the day bears down hard. I feel it in the bunched muscles in my neck and shoulders. Rolling them doesn't help. Compounding it, underneath the patch, my eyeball's itching like crazy and the dull ache of healing optic nerves threatens an actual headache. What I need is a hot shower and a few hours of shut eye. Beer would be nice, too

Charles' telepathic summons, '_We're in my office,' _splits my concentration. By we, I guess Charles means Summers.

Wonder if he hears my sigh?

xXx

I keep my briefing of Fury's meeting short and sweet and neither Charles nor Scott seems to bat an eye over the plan. Funny how Charles' objections over potential gratuitous violence are moot as long as he doesn't get his hands dirty. Scott is shocked that I want him in but he's pumped.

My turn to be surprised when Scott says, "Your buddy beat us to the punch with Ruchinsky."

"Who? Fury? Wha'd he do?"

"Kitty and I checked into a room next door to Ruchinsky. . ."

"What?" Scott huffs at the critical squint I shoot his direction.

"One o'the kids? 'Bout time."

"Glad you approve," he snarks. "Anyway, Ruchinsky was nowhere to be found."

Clearly ticked off, Charles adds, "Colonel Fury kindly alerted me of Ruchinsky's apprehension several hours after the fact."

I deadpan, "Nice."

I relate to Charles' irritation but I get why Fury did an end run around him. Fury's got a couple telepaths on staff that ain't quite as restrained as Charles can be when it comes gathering intelligence in a hurry. Just wish I could be there to watch them turn Ruchinsky's brains to scrambled eggs.

"Looks like we're good to go. Cyke, your shoulder gonna hold up for this?"

"You see a sling?" He pumps his arm, "No problem."

"Okay. Fifteen hundred tomorrow, in the garage for teleport."

"In uniform," Scott affirms.

I rub the back of my neck and am just about to shrug, "Negative."

There can't be anything obvious linking the X-Men to this op. And as much as Fury's helping, he better believe he doesn't own me.

I hear, '_I appreciate that, Logan__**,' **_inside my head.

I look Charles dead in the eye and say, "Nobody does."

He doesn't project or speak. Unflinching eye contact and a thin lipped, half smile tells me nothing and everything.

"SHIELD's supplyin' unmarked, camo-fatigues for whatever the terrain dictates," is all the info I have for Scott right now.

I break for the exit, "I got stuff to do before tomorrow. Later."

"May I assist in any way?"

Knee jerk reaction, I almost jump down Charles' throat to mind his own business. But, he sounds and smells sincere.

I wave him off, "It's covered." A few paces down the hall, not quite out of earshot I add, "Thanks anyway."

xXx

I sniff out my biological and step kid's hanging out in the game room yucking it up with the usual suspects over a video game. Don't get these kids sometimes. An awesome pool table, ping pong, Foosball and air hockey tables stay unused ninety percent of the time.

And don't get me started on that fuckin' Wii thing. Stupidest thing I ever seen.

Catching Matt's eye, his grin turns to a frown when I motion for him to follow me.

"Dang!" he complains and hands off the controller to Bobby. "Finish my turn, okay."

I say, "Sorry kid," as we climb the stairs for my quarters. "Gotta discuss somethin' important with ya."

He smells and sounds anxious asking, "Mom okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. She's good. So's Collin and Colleen."

"Awesome." He's curious now, "What's up?"

I keep mum 'til we're behind closed doors. Even then, I hem and haw trying to figure out how to break the news.

Staring at me, he's a mixed bag of inquisitive, uneasy and ticked off. Yeah, if I was winning the game I'd be pissed, too.

I say my piece and it's only seconds before he's fisting the air, yelling "Forget that! What for? What's mom say about this?"

I feel bad for the kid but I cross my arms, stand my ground because given a chance, I might back down.

"Truthfully, she's not too happy. But she knows, same as me, there isn't another option."

He's full of venom and disgust, "Uh huh. Ya know what? I think Travis is right."

"'Bout what?"

"You trying to keep mom all to yourself."

"Total bullshit, kid."

But I get where he's coming from. Probably feel the same myself in his place.

"No sir. I think you're the one that's full of it." Raised right, he literally shrinks back, aware he's crossed a line.

I stay cool and detached, let the kid vent.

Whipsawing between scared and pissed, it shows with a sneer and tears in his eyes, "Seriously, we can't go home. All of a sudden we can't stay at that boathouse. Now we're on some kind of freaking lock down for . . . for I dunno really what. Some bad dudes out to take over the school or something? Really?"

"And now all of a sudden, it's okay to stay with my dad? I mean, it's totally screwed up!" He slams his palms on the desktop and yelps. "Did ya forget my dad up and dumped me on my mom?"

His voice cracks, "What if I don't wanna stay with him?"

Been there and it hurts witnessing a decent young man revert back to a scared little boy.

Too riled, he shrugs off a comforting hug. I'm not put off.

"You're right, Matt, it's screwed up and you're pissed and frustrated. And ya know what? It's my fault. But, I'm workin' hard as I can to fix it. Part of that fix is keeping you safe. Safe right now means stayin' with your dad. As far as bad dudes, you better believe it."

The kid huffs and rolls his eyes.

"Sit down and listen up. I'm gonna give ya a history lesson. Comin' up on twenty years ago, I was an operative for an organization called Weapon Plus."

"Yeah, I remember you telling me. The same thing moms' dad was in? Same dudes who put the metal in you and you were like a spy or something."

Ignoring the kid's sass, I nod and keep talking, "More than a spy. We were experimented on, altered to be super soldiers, smart weapons, whatever ya wanna call it."

"Weapons Plus had - has a division called Replications. They do stuff like cloning and god knows what else. These guys are still at it, experimenting on Mutants, still tryin' to build an army of super soldiers. Wendy is . . .is; she's a victim of Reps."

Matt nods. He's heard some of this before.

"It ain't my place to tell you all the details 'bout Wendy but the bottom line is, they want me and her and prob'ly any other alpha mutant they can get their hands on."

"For what? What's an alpha mutant?"

"Alpha's have powers they control themself and ya usually can't tell from lookin' at 'em they're Mutant. I'm an alpha. So's Wendy and the Professor. Ororo's kinda borderline."

"Mister Wagner's not."

"Got it. Anyway, Reps will, for no better description, enslave 'em, and turn some of 'em into living weapons – like me."

"No way."

Popping a set of claws, I raise them in front of my face. "These things ain't just for hedge trimming, eh?"

"Yeah, but."

"No but about it. Brainwashed, with metal bones and claws, I was . . ."

I almost slip and say Stryker, "Somebody's personal WMD."

Matt's got no clue written all over his face.

"Weapon of mass destruction," I clarify

"You actually killed somebody?"

"Yeah," I mutter and look away.

Lots of somebodies but I can't – won't say it out loud.

"But that was like in a war, right?"

Gawd! Just like his mom, decent and innocent, the kid's ready with a free pass.

"Right." Talk about your lies of omission.

He looks and smells placated, maybe relieved but he's not done, "I still don't see why I gotta go to my dad's".

Jesus Christ! Use your head for something other than a hat rack.

Throttling back my impatience, I explain, "Because if they manage to attack the school before I can take 'em down, you could be killed or worse."

"Crap! What's worse than killed?"

How 'bout kidnapped? Torture with a side of mind fucking?

"Trust me, Matt. There's plenty worse than dead. Right now, I need ya to trust me when I say I'm gonna take care o'things. In a couple more days, a week at most, your mom and me will get ya back and we'll go home."

"What about Wendy? The other kids?"

"The older ones 'r trained to handle trouble. As for as the younger ones, stayin' here's their best option 'cuz most of 'em don't have any place else to go."

For lots of reasons, it's time to wind this conversation down. I nudge his shoulder, "It's gettin' late now. Your dad's coming for ya tomorrow at nine, so go on and pack up."

"Don't I get to see mom before I go?"

"Hey, you're just goin' across town. Your dad can take ya to see your mom anytime ya want."

He's got that _d'oh, right_ look on his face.

"And while I'm gone, you're the man. I'm countin' on ya, eh."

The kid's Adams Apple bobs as he gulps and squeaks, "Yes sir," no doubt pondering just what the hell I mean.

"Everything's gonna work out. I promise." This time he accepts my hug.

xXx

"Yeah darlin', he took it okay."

From the huff on the other end of the phone, I don't think my wife believes me.

Just beyond the door I catch a ribbon of Wendy's scent.

I explain, "No, more pissed. Yeah, probably. He thinks he's gettin' a royal shaft again."

While Sue dumps on me again about releasing Matt to his dad, I ease over to the door. Phone on mute, I murmur, "Wha'daya want, kid?"

The little eavesdropper doesn't answer.

Back to my wife, "Sue, I promised you and I promised Matt, it's gonna work out. Yeah, yeah, Sandra'll be here when Allen fetches him."

Sue preaches that I don't make a scene with Allen.

"I'll try."

Hafta hold the phone away from my ear while she screeches, "No try about it, Logan. Do. Not. Make. A. Scene."

Back on mute for a second I censure, "Kid, this is a private conversation."

A meek, "I'm sorry," filters through the door and I hear the scuffing of her shoes as she puts some distance between us.

"Okay, okay. Ya have my word," is my reluctant vow to Sue not to gut, pound, pulverize or otherwise maul her ex-husband.

"You're welcome. Now, will ya get some rest? Yeah, I'll be over tomorrow morning. Soon as I know Matt's settled."

"T'night?" I sigh. "Dunno, darlin'. The back way's snowed over. Can't risk plowing, ya know?"

She wants to know what I'm gonna do tomorrow to get to her.

"Don't worry. I got it figured out."

Figuring anybody who drives out through the main gate is gonna have a tail; I plan on driving to the nearest train station, parking and riding the train. I'll go a stop or two past the hospital then double back on another train. That'll work once, maybe twice. Once is all I really need.

"Trust me and yeah, I'll be careful….. I love you too. 'Night."

"What? No I haven't called my mother yet. Thought you were goin' to. Darlin' if I had a problem with it, I'd tell ya."

Aw geeze, will give it a rest? "Really, really. Now get some rest."

Again, I answer, "You too," when she says she loves me again.

"Go. To. Sleep. Bye." I hang up before she can start harping about something else.

No surprise, the kid is back. Just for the hell of it, I ease over to the door; fling it open and growl, "This better be good."

There she stands. Arms crossed, a single eyebrow arched and a flippant smirk says I didn't startle her a single iota.

She's sincere stating, "I'm sorry but with all that's going on I really need to ask you something before you and Matt hafta go."

"Not leavin' 'til tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know but I really need to talk to you now."

"Your mom know you're here?"

"Not exactly."

"I'll take that as a no. Ar-right kid, c'mon in."

She makes herself comfy on the two seater couch. I stand beside the open door. The wide-open door that's gonna stay that way throughout this entire chat.

"What's the emergency?"

Lacing her fingers together she cracks her knuckles and takes a deep breath, "I want to see my baby brother and sister."

That's not what I expected.

"Um, okay."

I start up the hospital issued laptop and pull out the desk chair, "Check this out."

A clear picture of the twins in their isolettes covers the screen. Damn, this is really cool.

Wendy scoots forward, her nose practically on the screen, "Oh my god! Wow! There so teeny. Who's who?"

I reach around her to work the zoom function, "Blue cap for Collin."

She cuts in, "Pink for my sister." She smiles up at me, "What did you name her?"

"Colleen."

"Both start with C. Cute. Do they have middle names?"

"Geeze kid! It's Colleen Elizabeth and Collin James. Ya want their blood type, too?"

Sassy brat, she sticks the tip of her tongue out. "What color's their hair?"

"Collins' hair's is light, like Sue's. You're sis' hair is dark." Without thinking I smooth my hand over Wendy's auburn curls, "Kinda like yours."

"How come they're all wrinkly and red?"

"They gotta grow some more."

"Crazy. How much more?"

"A lot more. They weren't s'posed to be born 'til sometime in March."

"Oh my god!"

"Yeah, you could say that."

This is really cool," she gestures to the computer, "But, I meant I want to see them . . . you know, in person?

"It's a lockdown. You're stayin' right here."

Scooting the chair back, she almost runs over my boot, "That's crap and you know it."

Eyeballing me, she justifies, "Matthew's been to see them."

"True but that was more of an aside. It's his mom that got hurt in a wreck, ya know.

"I guess so, but still. I mean you found a way to sneak Matt. Can't you figure something out for me?"

"Said anything to your mom 'bout this?" I'm grasping at anything to redirect this line of conversation.

Hands on her hips, she tosses her head, "No I haven't asked and I'm not going to. She'll just say no, anyway."

"Kid, you ain't draggin' me into a game of one-up against your mom."

"If it weren't a lockdown would you let me?"

"If your mom said ok."

Here she goes with the crossed arms and that impish head toss again, "The heck with what my mom says. I can make some choices for myself."

"Yeah, you can but don't forget this; every choice has consequences. Sometimes those consequences impact people in ways you don't figure on."

She sighs and draws up her legs, balancing her feet on the chair seat, "You don't want me to get too close, do you?"

"Nah."

Damn! Lying to her ain't gonna cut it.

"Wendy . . . yes . . . and no. Once all this stuff blows over you 'n your mom are gonna be out of here. "

"So? I might still go to school here." There's an edge of desperation in her voice. "And if I didn't it's not like White Plains is that far away."

"True but you know in here," I point to her heart and then her head, "And here how your mom feels about me."

I sense equal amounts of frustration and resignation when she says, "She's just as weird about it as you are."

"Maybe but I'll tell ya one thing we both feel the same about. We wanna do right by ya."

"Don't roll your eyes. Your mom's done a great job for fifteen years all by herself and…"

Wendy cuts me off, "But I always felt like something was missing! Now I finally know what — who was missing."

My turn to fidget and stare at the ceiling thinking, don't wrap yourself up in me. It was dumb luck from the very beginning.

I close my hand over one of her shoulders, "Wendy, just because I am your biological dad doesn't make me a dad."

She clasps my outstretched arm, "I know but don't you want to? I mean, if you knew about me when I was little would you want to be my dad?"

I toss up my hands, "When you were little, I wasn't fit to be anybody's dad."

That stops her cold. Fiddling with a strand of hair, she goes quiet making a fair prune face impersonation.

Finally, she sasses, "Mom must've thought you were okay."

I smart back, " Kid, you've seen inside my mind. I'm not a nice person."

"Once you weren't. But now you are. I can feel it. And Doctor Sue wouldn't have married you if you weren't a good person."

Keep your illusions, sweetheart. Just like my wife. Just like everybody around this place.

"How about now?"

"How about what now?"

"Being my dad now."

"It ain't up to me."

"But if it was?"

Sinking into my couch, I'm about to bust a sweat measuring my thoughts and words. I pat the cushion next to me. She sits.

Making soft eye contact, I clear my throat, "First of all, there never was or will there ever be your mom and me. Not like the way I think you're thinkin'."

I smell disappointment as she sucks in a breath to say something but I shush her with a shake of my head.

"And this ain't a what-if game. There're huge complications for two families."

"Huh?"

"You and your mom, me 'n Sue. Matt, your baby brother and sis."

Staring down at her lap, she picks at her fingernails and mutters, "Yeah, I guess."

An unwelcome buzz in my head says she's surfing and she's all frown asking, "Why do you always think something bad is gonna happen?"

Leaning my head back into the cushion, I don't disguise my cynicism, "Little girl when ya've been around the block many times as me you expect the worse and hope for okay."

"So what am I supposed to do? Give up? Go away? Forget about you?"

"Ya might be better off but I guess it's too late for that, eh?"

She nods and here come the tears, "But, you promised to take care of me and mom."

I think yeah, I'll live to regret half that promise.

She looks confused and hurt. Don't wanna make her feel that way but she's asking for it surfing like she does.

I wimp out, "Nah angel, just give it time. When the danger's passed maybe your mom'll loosen up."

"Would you really?"

WTF? "Kid, I thought the Prof was teachin' ya to keep outta people's heads?"

"I can't help it. Sorry. You're so close."

"Well, knock it off, okay. And yeah, I'll work it out with your Mom. When the time's right."

The kid takes a flying leap and suddenly I'm in a neck squeeze with a cherry lip gloss flavored kiss planted on my cheek, "Thank you Daddy, thank you."

Daddy?

My first reaction is to peel her off and I think she senses it 'cuz she backs off fast.

"Don't worry," the smart aleck winks. "I won't say anything to mom or anybody."

"Wendy, I'm talkin' about you visiting the twins."

"Oh."

She sounds like she's put in her place but the expression says she's knows I'm slinging mild bull.

"The custody sharing thing, that's a conversation for another time."

"Like when?"

The angry look on her face says she's reading my unspoken sarcastic come back. Read this, princess: Yeah, I'm a chickenshit. Especially when it comes to locking horns with your mother.

"Lemme take care o'business. Then, I'll talk to her."

"You promise?"

Full caution flags deployed, I'm careful with my words, "I promise to talk to her. I can't promise what'll happen."

She exhales, twists up her pretty little mouth and mutters, "Right. Umm . . . okay."

Quick as a blink, she's back to where this all started, "So, when can I see Colleen and Collin?"

Little women with one track minds!

I laugh and tell her, "I'll work on it. Now scram, I got shit to do."

Turning back, she fires a sour expression, "Five days! Seriously?"

"What I tell ya 'bout snoopin' inside my head?"

"I'm not. You're projecting."

My turn for the stern hairy eyeball, "What am I thinking now?"

Her eyes go wide, "You wouldn't dare."

Projecting all the possible ways to whop her behind, I show my canines and warn, "Don't push it, kid."

xXx

I catch the scent about the same time I hear the click of those damned spike heels she always wears. Ignoring the soft knock on the door, I go back to reading an old Tom Clancy novel.

The second knock is insistent. "Logan, it's Marla. I need to discuss something with you."

Aw fuck. Did Wendy go and spill everything? Probably.

I snap the book shut and dry wash my face. Don't want or need this sort of distraction right now.

I don't bother getting up to open the door. "Wha'daya wanna talk about?" I call out.

"Wendy, of course."

Of course. "What about her?"

"Damn you, Logan. Open the door."

"Fine. Don't get your panties in a wedge."

"You're beyond rude."

"I try."

Swinging the door open with force makes her jump back. Her eyes go wide and she sputters, "Will you put on some clothes."

What the hell! I'm wearing jeans.

"Hey lady, this is my turf. You got a problem, too bad."

"Arrggh! I don't know why I even try."

"Yeah, well I kinda wish ya wouldn't. Now, what's so goddamn important?"

"May I come in?"

"If I say no, will ya go away?"

Pushy bitch huffs, walks right past me and makes herself comfortable on my couch.

"I'm not going to take the bait, Logan. We need to talk about. . . well, actually I'd like your opinion."

My opinion? Stunned, I get closer to her and take a sniff. Yep, it's her. No shape shifter's taken her form.

Now who's dangling bait? I cross my arms and lean against the open door frame, "'Bout what?"

"Well, before we get into the details, I just want to say I'm sorry to hear about your wife and the twins. I'm truly praying for the best outcome."

"Appreciate that."

Her sincerity takes the fun out of jerking her chain. So, I shut the door, grab a t-shirt and take the chair opposite the couch.

"I'm guessing you got some issues with the talk Wendy and I had t'night."

"Visiting the twins? Yes, she did ask and I told her she needed to wait until they were much stronger."

"So, you are okay with it?"

"By the time the twins are ready for visits, I hope to have Wendy's attentions diverted elsewhere."

"What the hell's that mean?"

"It means I'm contemplating transferring Wendy to Massachusetts Institute. That's what I want your opinion about."

"It's not a bad school but I'm really not really into hashing this over tonight."

"You don't understand. I'm contemplating transferring her immediately."

"Bad idea. That place ain't fortified."

"I'm aware of that. I discussed this with Charles. He thinks the idea is worth exploring."

"Well that just great. Looks like ya got everything all set. What ya askin' me for?"

"It's not like that. Nothing is all set. I'm asking you because….Oh never mind. I really would prefer you not have anything to do with her."

"If that were true you'd have never come here in the first place."

"Hindsight's always twenty-twenty."

"Somethin' like that. Listen Marla, I got no problems if you wanna transfer the kid. But, it can't happen 'til I fix the little problem with Reps. Which, by the way, is going down tomorrow."

"Is that why you're sending Matthew to his father?"

"Who told . . . ? Wendy mentioned it, eh?"

"She was a tad upset."

"Yeah, well, sorry 'bout that."

She's unconvinced but lets it go. "Now, what is it that's _going down _tomorrow?"

"Nothin' I can go into detail about, you know that. But, that's why I'm tellin' - askin' ya to wait on taking Wendy anywhere."

"I . . . I suppose a few more days makes no difference."

"A few more days makes a huge difference in keeping both of you safe."

"I have no choice but to trust you."

"Not just me. Xavier and everybody here. We will not let anything happen to you or Wendy as long as you stay put."

xXx

"Graarrgh!" I roll over and complain into the darkness.

Three fucking a.m.

Another fucking nightmare.

I give up.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stretch. Popping joints sound like a string of firecrackers. The racket makes Susie winces every time she hears me. She doesn't believe me when I tell her it feels good.

Damn! Wish she was here right now.

I pull on a pair of sweatpants and an undershirt. Padding in bare feet down silent, dark hallways, I'm in search of don't know what.

A beer? Gargantuan sandwich?

Peace of mind?

There's dim light filtering up the back stairs leading to the kitchen. More than the usual safety light, it looks like I'm going to be company for somebody.

Sniffing the scent, I almost change my mind and head back upstairs.

Scott glances up from this weeks' copy of The New Yorker and a bowl of cereal, "Can't sleep? Nightmares?"

"Yeah. What's your excuse?"

"The same."

Chuckling, I tease, "Eating Cocoa Puffs at three in the morning'll give anybody nightmares."

He flips the bird to my back as I rummage through the refrigerator.

He goes back to reading and I build myself that gargantuan sandwich. Ham, roast beef, liverwurst, swiss and cheddar cheese with a smear of Dijon and Mayo between thick slices of rye bread and I'm a half happy camper. A beer'd make me whole but my private stash is out and this kitchen ain't on the list of stops for the beer fairy.

Settling for bottled ice tea, I swing a leg over a stool and park opposite Scott at the counter.

He grimaces, "Geeze, did ya leave anything off that thing?"

I say, "The rabbit food," and chomp down.

He grins then picks of his bowl and slurps the chocolate flavored milk and cereal dregs. Pushing the empty to the side, he smells uneasy as he folds then straightens the edge of the magazine.

I cock an eyebrow his direction but he looks past me.

I set my sandwich down. "What?"

"This is the, um, first chance we've had to talk privately. I owe you an explanation."

"'Bout what?"

"Your sister and I. Why we broke up."

Of the few things Scott might have to discuss in private with me, this is not what I figured on.

Party serious, I ask, "Need me to snatch the bourbon from Charles' study?"

He half-heartedly reprimands, "Mission tomorrow."

Scratching my scalp, "Is it no booze twelve feet from take off or no smokin'? I always mix that up," makes him grin.

"You're an ass, Logan."

I salute him with my ice tea bottle, "I'll admit I'm curious but you don't owe me squat. It's your business."

Ignoring what I say, he rambles, "We were doing great. She was happy. So was I . . . or I thought I was. Then, this stuff blew up in our face about Wendy. You know what I'm saying?"

Chewing, I nod and keep listening.

"I mean, you can't be engaged to somebody when you're still in love with somebody else, ya know?"

The ghost of someone else? I do know because for a long time I was in love with a ghost.

I say, "Jeannie," with a nod.

He answers, "Yeah but there's more," as he shuffles over to the sink to wash his dishes.

"Hey, I told ya this ain't any o'my business."

Over running water, he mutters, "If you want to punch me in the face, I won't stop you."

Now what the hell could he possibly hafta say that'd make me wanna punch him in the face? His business or not, this I gotta hear.

"Eh?" I grunt as non-committed as possible.

"I think the reason . . . no, I know the reason I hooked up with Julie was to piss you off."

I think, hate to tell ya bub, but that ain't exactly breaking news.

He's going to wash the glaze right off that cereal bowl.

"Along the way, I realized I really like and respect her. And there's that whole incompatible career thing. No way was she giving up hers. Same with me. We'd end up spending most of our time apart."

Gonna wear a hole in the towel, Scooter.

"Even without factoring Jean into the situation, Julie and I were on different tracks going in opposite directions. I don't even know how the whole engagement thing happened. Sort of like an unstoppable freight train."

Don't ya mean train wreck?

"Tell me Queen Elizabeth wasn't the engine running it?"

"Huh? Queen Elizabeth?"

"My mother."

He snorts, "Oh yeah. She always like that?"

"Far as I can remember."

Tossing the dish towel on the counter, he commiserates, "Phew!"

He finally makes eye contact, "But anyway, Julie and I both came to our senses. It's actually kind of ironic. For all our differences, we brought up breaking up at almost the same time."

I offer, "No harm, no foul, eh?" for lack of anything else. Beats tellin' him I really don't give a flyin' fuck.

Actually I do but not for the reason he might think. "So, you got your head straight for this mission?"

"Coming from a guy who's got his wife and newborns in the hospital, they guys who's recently discovered a long lost daughter with a load of baggage and a mother who's an ex-girlfriend….."

"Marla ain't an ex-girlfriend."

"Okay, ex-fuck buddy. Heap on getting blown up, almost killed a couple weeks ago. Did I miss anything?"

I chuckle, "Probably, but who's keepin' track?"

"Speaking of, how's your eye?"

Pushing aside the patch reveals an almost normal looking eye. The pupil remains dilated making any kind of light painful. "I'm startin' to see shadows."

He nods. "And you're asking if my head's straight?"

Lacing my fingers and stretching palms out, I crack my knuckles and exhale. "We both got a lot o'baggage going into this mission and while the team's skilled, they won't have our backs same as we'll have each others."

"Same thought crossed my mind."

"Their end game's not the same, either."

"You think it'll be a problem?"

"Hope not cuz anybody get's in my way's gonna end up collateral damage."

"You are serious about killing Diebel."

"With these," I slide the claws from my left hand. "Dissect him real slow, piece by piece. Won't come close to the sufferin' he put me through but I'll take what I can get."

"There was a time when I couldn't understand that kind of hatred, didn't feel such overpowering lust for revenge. But…." Scott hangs his head, seems to swallow back his stomach. "When Stryker and his goons kidnapped the Professor and me, the kids. And then what he let his goons do to Jubilee…."

His voice trails off.

"Then he dosed me with his mind fuck drugs and made me…" He chokes, "Almost kill Jean…. "

"Puttin' 'em down hard is the only justice."

"Makes me sick to know you're right. Depresses me the Professor won't see it."

Weird! Scott's wallowing in guilt so thick I could cut it with my claws. Misplaced guilt, if anybody asks me.

"Cut y'self a break. Charles gets it."

Scott bows his head, his voice an apologetic whisper, "Sometimes I wonder."

"Nothing wrong with that, Scott. We're screwed if we lock-stepped with any one member of the team."

He nods.

"I don't always agree with Charles but I respect him for stickin' to his convictions. I tell ya this, too. I got no doubts that if it came down to it, he'd kill to protect everybody in this school."

Elbows on the table, propping up his chin, Scott looks like a school kid taking in a lecture.

I'm talking true but maybe I'm laying it on a little heavy. I clam up, finish my sandwich while Scott seems to gnaw on the inside of his cheek, digesting more than cereal.

Even when it's quiet, it's never really silent. The refrigerator motor whines. Drops of water from the leaky faucet plink into the stainless steel sink. Heat whooshes through the ceiling ductwork. That obnoxious kitchen mouse skitters through the pantry wall.

Finally, pushing back from the breakfast bar, the stool screeching against ceramic tile, Scott stretches and sighs, "Is it wrong to hope that what we're doing will keep him from having to prove it?"

"'Til the next bad guys come along."

Another dry laugh, "You make Murphy seem like a fucking optimist."

xXx

Been sitting here watching while Matt does his damndest to ignore me. Immersed for the past hour, he playing a video game – badly, I'm not imagining feeling like he just as soon I dropped off the planet.

Sandra, our attorney, well, Sue's attorney, delivered the finalized paperwork. She managed to strong arm Allen into scaling back on the custody stuff. In writing, signed and sealed, the scumbag agrees that the arrangement reverts to the original one as soon as we move into a 'domicile separate from Xavier's School for Gifted Children'.

It's a mouthful of legal bullshit but it works and when the time is right I fully intend to grab for a mile and run with it. Said separate domicile from Xavier's is a house I intend to build for Sue and all our kids on the ridge looking down on the reservoir. Technically separate from the school, it's still tucked safe on the property, protected by the perimeter force field and yours truly.

Matt's making like a brick wall so I save my breath explaining any details.

I hear the gate chimes trill downstairs. I don't hear someone answer over the intercom, mostly because I'm not listening hard, but it's happening. Not much later, I hear footsteps on the stairs and a knock on the door.

"Logan," it's Rogue playing receptionist today. "There's somebody, a couple somebody's that want in."

Anxious, Matt glances at the door and cusses under his breath.

Through the door, I instruct, "Tell 'em to wait."

With the lockdown, before Allen and his entourage can come through the gates, Vic and I gotta shake 'em down. I'm not exactly in a big hurry.

"Oh, and Marie, give Vic heads up too."

"Sure thing," sounds like _show-ah thang_ when Marie says it.

Hoisting one of his bags over my shoulder, I ask my step-son, "Ya ready?"

Without a word he slams the video controller down and yanks out the cord. From the way he stuffs it into its case, I'm not sure it'll work next time.

Not my problem.

Immaculately dressed as usual, Charles meets us at the bottom of the main stairs in the foyer. A serene smile is plastered on his face, "I'm happy to sit and chat with Matthew for a bit."

Lurking not far, I smell Wendy. Glancing in her direction I nod for her to come out of hiding.

"I wasn't hiding," she defends. "I just wasn't sure if I should be around."

Got nothing to say so I shrug. Things can't get any more fucked up, so she might as well hang out. From the grin on his face and hug he gives, Matt's not objecting.

Getting some mixed signals from these two. Of the cozy variety, might hafta keep an eye on that later.

Vic and I take our time driving the mile and a half to the main gate. "Mi dios," he laughs. "You'd think it's a Presidential motorcade or something."

"No shit," I agree.

Definitely overkill with police squad cars leading and tailing. Here's Allen in his Lexus behind the first cop car. Next, in a gray Mercedes is another stern looking business suit. Fourth in line is a plain white Ford with some kind of crest painted on the side door. In an arc overtop of the crest it reads: County of Westchester. The bottom reads: Child Protective Services.

Little bit paranoid there, Al?

Bringing up the rear though not part of the it is Sandra, our attorney.

Vic checks ID's and I sniff for anybody trying to pull something over. Namely, one of our usual gate spies impersonating a cop or CPS personnel.

Everything seems copacetic until I make it clear this entire motorcade ain't having access to the property. Everybody has their hissy fits and stare downs. The lawyers earn their bonuses, but in the end it's Allen and the lawyers who get through.

Gotta give myself a pat on the back. I didn't cuss anybody out – much and I didn't molest, punch or otherwise maul anybody. Susie would approve.

Allen's doing his best to be a holier than thou son of a bitch. Using his lawyer as a mouthpiece, he obviously can't be bothered to speak directly to me or Vic. Well, I got something to say to the great Doctor Harris and it ain't going be filtered through his lawyer.

A peanut gallery's formed on the landing overlooking the foyer. The mood's about as cheery as watching a convict being sentenced.

Pokerfaced, Charles wheels forward. No one but me senses the grimness, checked anger as he offers handshakes, "Doctor Harris, Mister Goldstein, Sandra, good day to you all."

"Thank you, Professor." It's Allen's attorney again.

Finally, Harris quits acting like his shit don't stink. He smiles and opens his arms, "Hey Matty. Are you ready to come home?"

The kid stares at his father like the guy's gone demented. I can smell the reluctance as he trudges the distance to accept the embrace, "Hey, dad."

Keeping an arm around the boy's shoulders, Allen zero's in on Wendy, "Who's your friend?"

"This is Wendy, dad. She's, um…."

Matt glances at me. I give an okay nod. But before he can explain, Wendy jumps right in. "I'm Wendy Jennings. Logan's my dad."

Nervous, Matt speaks again, "Yeah, that makes her my step-sister. I think."

Allen studies Wendy, tracks eyes to me and then back to Wendy, "The resemblance between father and daughter is certainly striking. Nice to meet you, young lady."

"You don't really mean that, do you?"

That's my girl. Nail it right between the eyes.

A couple gasps and smothered giggles flow from the peanut gallery. I cough to keep from laughing as Allen's mouth drops open wide enough to use as a snow shovel. Matt grins and winks at her.

"Excuse me," Allen splutters.

"Wendy's a telepathic empath," Matt explains to his father.

"Matt! Empathic telepath," Wendy corrects.

Matt shrugs, "Sooorrreee," and clue his disinterested father in to Wendy's powers.

Quietly maneuvering out of Allen's peripheral vision, I make a zip-it sign across my mouth aimed at Wendy. At about the same time I hear, _This isn't helpful, Miss Jennings._

Damn! I had no idea Charles could broadcast on two channels at once.

Wendy stares back at him then me, briefly defiant then yielding, "I apologize for misusing my powers."

She ain't sorry but nobody can smell that except me. Charles can probably read her but he makes nothing out of it.

Wendy breaks the impasse by wrapping Matt in a hug, "Gotta get to class, bro'. See ya soon."

"'Kay. Text me when the lockdown's over."

"I will." Her goodbye trails as she skips down the hall leading to the classroom wing.

He waves at the peanut gallery, "Thanks guys. Catch ya later."

Jubilee shouts out, "Dude, you're not gettin' away that fast," as she zips down the banister.

Monkey see, monkey do, the kids descend and lay kisses or handshakes and smart-alecky good-bye's on Matt.

Soon as order's restored, Allen approaches Charles, "I thank you for the hospitality shown to my son."

He glances at Goldstein who produces a thin envelope from his breast pocket and hands it over. "I took the liberty of determining what a weeks' tuition is, plus a tidy bonus. Please take this draft as reimbursement for Matt's care."

"This isn't necessary. We don't charge tuition to students of faculty or staff."

"Well then, take it as a contribution to the school. I'm sure you can put it to good use."

Low down cocksucker! The guy's trying to buy Charles off.

"Considering the circumstances, I'm afraid I must decline your generosity. I'm sure you and Mister Goldstein understand."

Aw c'mon Chuck. Just tell him to stuff it up his ass and rotate. Judging the slightest twitching of a single jaw muscle and pitch of his chin, I know he wants to.

"I quite understand," Allen relents. "I salute your integrity, Professor Xavier."

Charles reply's an ice cold, "Indeed."

Looking like he smells something foul, Allen turns to me but won't make eye contact, "Your cooperation in this difficult situation is appreciated. I hope you'll convey to Susan that everything went without incident."

Before I can answer, he's focused back on Matt, "These your bags?"

The kid nods and slings a backpack over one shoulder. As if on cue, Goldstein grabs the remaining suitcases.

"Hang on a sec, Dad." Dropping the backpack, Matt bounds across the foyer.

An arms' length away from me, he hesitates. "I didn't really mean it when I said you were full of it."

Thrusting out his right hand, I take it and grab him into a hug.

"No worries kid. See ya next week."

Veins popping out on his forehead and fire in his eyes, if the kids' father had Cyclops' abilities, he'd knock me clean into next week.

Snatching Matt's pack, there's gravel in Allen's voice, "C'mon son."

I let go of the kid but I'm not done, "Hey, Al. I'd like to have a word with ya."

Lid on the anger, now I sense fear, "Another time, perhaps."

Ignoring me, he fakes cordiality, "Again, thank you Professor Xavier. We'll be on our way."

Not 'til I say so, bub.

Crossing my arms, his only way out is through me, "It'll only take a minute. I just need to um, convey something on Sue's behalf."

Goldstein butts in, "Doctor Harris is under strong advisement to communicate through or with an attorney present."

"No problem with that. Join the party, bub. Charles, mind if we borrow your office for a minute?"

"By all means. Sandra, cup of tea?"

"I'll take a rain check, Charles. I think I need to stick by my client for a few minutes."

I'm the perfect host, holding the door and letting the guest of honor go first, then Sandra and Goldstein. Taking my time, I let them mill around, figure if they want to sit or stand.

Pleasantries over, I slam the door.

"Sandra, have a seat." No real beef with her, I add, "Please."

"Al, Goldstink. Park it."

"Goldstein," he chafes. "Mister Logan, do you have issues with Jews?"

Is he fucking kidding? "You got issues with Mutants?"

Got his number. His eyes hit the floor and he makes like a clam.

Sticking to his client like a Siamese twin, Goldstein and Allen sit on the two-seater couch.

I don't sit. I want the psychological advantage of standing over them.

Sandra pipes up, "Logan, we didn't discuss this."

"No, we didn't. Your option to stay or go. I won't hold it against ya either way."

I watch the muscles in her throat bobble. "I'll stay."

Goldstein whips out a cell phone, "I'm going to record this.

Indifferent, I shrug. Next, I cross my arms and measure my steps until I'm boot tips to polished wing tips, lording over Allen.

"Listen up Al ol' pal. The only reason Matt's going with you is 'cuz it's safer for him."

"You got a lot of nerve."

"You ain't listening if yer flappin yer lips."

"You're right." He makes to stand up. "And I'm not listening to another word."

Want to wring this assholes neck, but if I lay a finger on him, Matt is screwed. Growling, I display the canines and he shrinks back. Does he need an absorbent pad under his backside?

"You fuck with Matt, make him unhappy, leave him in the lurch like the other night, you're gonna answer to me."

"Are you threatening my client?" Goldstein's trying to sound intimidating but he's about ready to piss himself.

"Same goes for Susie. You're ever the cause for her to cry or even cuss your sorry ass, I'll carve out your goddamn heart. We clear on that?"

To Goldstein, I clarify, "Get this on your recorder. I'm not threatening. I'm making an iron-clad promise."

I'd pop the claws but that'd dig me in deeper than I already am. 'Sides, they ain't worth the pain.

Straightening my posture, striding backwards to the door and flinging it open, I point to Goldstein and Harris, "Now get the fuck out o'here."

They look like two thirds of the Three Stooges falling over themselves to escape.

Sandra slumps in the chair, shaking her head. I go to her and clasp a hand on her shoulder.

"Thanks lady."

She glares at me, "I'm sure you know the phrase, screwed the pooch."

"Just depends on how ya look at it, darlin'."

"Uh huh. Well, don't be looking for me to make a silk purse out of this sows ear."

"C'mon. I thought I kept a damn good reign on it."

"As you said, depends on how you look at it."

"Fair enough. Gotta go."

I'm just out the door before I remember something important. From the inner pocket of my jacket I pull out a wrinkled envelope and drop it in her lap.

"I gotta go somewhere. If I don't come back, I want ya to make sure the stuff I wrote down gets taken care of."

"What is this?"

"It's a list of my assets and a Will."

"Who drew this up?"

"I did. It's real simple. Everything I got goes to Sue. It's legal and it's notarized."

"Good God, Logan! What are you getting into?"

"You don't wanna know."

She stands and offers her hand. As I take it, she pulls me in, "Whatever it is, be careful and peace be with you."

Don't quite know what to say, so I nod, pull back and head out.

xXx

There he is. I see my hubby through the glass scrubbing and gowning.

Lifting a corner of the blanket I coo, "Here comes your daddy," to my baby girl nestled between my bare breasts.

Colleen wriggles as her rose bud lips form a yawn.

Good grief! Did he use an egg beater on his hair? Must've forgot to charge his beard trimmer.

Oh leave it, Sue. He looks beat. Poor baby. Bet he hasn't slept worth beans.

Hmm! The eye patch is gone.

First thing through door, he says, "Lookin' good, darlin'," and plants a kiss on my lips.

Liar. I'm pale and fat and my hair's a wreck. "Thanks."

The sound of a new voice startles the baby. Her jerky movement forces the blanket to slip lower.

"Ditched the patch, I see. I'm glad."

Logan moderates the volume, "Oh whoa, baby darlin'. Sorry. Can't see too much out of it yet."

"What's Hank say about that?"

"Haven't asked."

Stroking her fuzzy skin, he's got the oddest expression, "Sue, whatcha doin'?"

"What do you mean? I'm holding the baby?"

"Yeah, I see that. But your half naked and so's she. I mean, don't get me wrong, I could look at your tits twenty-four, seven, But, what's up with this?"

I giggle and re-adjust the cover, "It's called Kangaroo Care."

Another weird look.

"I kid you not, hon. It's one of the best therapies there is for preemies. Helps my milk come in, too."

"If you say so."

He takes the vacant recliner next to mine, "How ya feelin'?"

"I feel fine sitting, standing or laying down. It's getting in those positions that's going to kill me."

He nods but I get the impression he doesn't quite understand. No matter. I've got another pressing topic to pick at.

"How'd it go with Matthew?"

He hesitates and I notice he casts his eyes down, "Not too bad. Allen's and his cum for brains attorney are in one piece."

Ick! Some days I coud do without his vivid descriptions. "But?"

"But nothin'. I kept my word even when the bastard tried to buy Charles off."

"Say what?"

"Yeah. Started with offering to pay tuition for the week, plus bonus. When Charles wouldn't take that, Al called it a donation."

"God! That's almost as bad as him taking change out of the collection plate at church."

"Yer kiddin'."

"Nope. He actually did that at Matthew's first Holy Communion. I was mortified."

"I'd 've called him out."

"That'd be hysterical."

Feeling a twinge, I shift my position. "Guess what, papa bear? Baby holding one-oh-one."

"Not like that!"

"Like what?"

"With my shirt off."

I laugh softly. "No, no. Well, you could. All that fur'd be an awesome blankie."

"Better 'n the finest sable."

"Uh no. She doesn't get a mink 'til I do." I flash him a sexy wink, "I have one all picked out at Kaufmans."

Clutching his chest and jeans pocket, he mimes a heart attack.

Lowering Colleen to my lap, I swaddle her up tightly. "I really wasn't joking about moving around so lean over and take her, please."

There's a glint of panic in his eyes, "Yaaah, no."

For a guy whose moves in the Danger Room are pure artistry, it's comical to watch him situate himself for a simple baby pass. Poor man, he's a statue as I place our daughter in his arms.

Warning, "Just watch the tube," it's not difficult to fix, but I don't want him to accidently kink or detach the baby's oxygen.

"Oh shit!"

"You're doing fine. Breathe, honey."

"I'm okay."

"Might be more comfortable if you sit."

"Right."

You'd think it's the worlds' greatest effort as he inches backwards and eases into the chair. Realizing neither of them crumbled to dust, he breaks out in a wide grin. "Yeah, that wasn't so bad."

"You'll be handling both of them in no time."

Me too, as soon as my shoulder's healed from the wreck.

He chuckles, "Yeah." But, he doesn't sound like he believes it.

"I need a potty break. You going to be okay?"

"What'll I do if she cries?"

"Rock her."

"Oh! Yeah."

He's got that panicked look again.

"Logan, the call button's looped over the arm rest. Buzz the nurse if you need to."

xXx

Okay. I can handle this. I mean, the kid's your basic lump. Wrapped up like she is, couldn't move if she wanted to.

Nothing to worry about.

"Hello, sweet lil' princess. Looks like it's just you 'n me, eh?"

I glance at Collin, sleeping in his plastic crib, "Can't forget your brother."

Damn. I think I really would like to hold 'em both. All these tubes are a definite logistical problem. Takes a bit of maneuvering but I untangle one arm and buzz the nurse.

A pretty smile on her face, LaDonna sweeps into the room, "Gosh darn, I lost the bet with your wife."

"Yeah. What would that be?"

"She bet you'd buzz."

I joke, "Fine thing when a stranger's got more faith in me than my wife. She didn't happen to qualify a reason, eh?"

"No."

"Ya might still collect then cuz there ain't any problem. Any chance you could bundle up my boy and lemme hold 'em both?"

"Absolutely."

In less time than it would take me to unzip, piss and zip up, she's got my son blanketed and ready to hand over.

"They're not heavy but let me suggest a pillow on your lap for support. You'd be surprised how quickly your arms cramp in that awkward position."

"Whatever ya say."

"Don't worry about his breathing tube. You'd have to really tug on it to cause a problem."

She lowers him into the crook of my right arm. "Just support his head."

"Right," I say and shift my body.

"That's right." She adjusts Colleen for me. "Perfect."

"Yeah." I can't quit smiling.

My boy cracks open a single eye and wiggles before he's back to his snooze. The scent coming from both of them is pure trust and peace. I want some of that.

"Mister Logan, can I take a picture?"

"What for? Wha'daya gonna do with it?"

"Lots of parents like to document special milestones. Like the first time you hold your child. So, we make little keepsake albums for our NICU families."

"Yeah, I guess so. Kinda think Sue ought to be in the picture, though."

"We got a few pictures of her earlier this morning. We'll be glad to take some more with all of you."

"Fair enough. Have a ball. And if you don't tell I buzzed, I won't."

She flashes a grin and a wink.

xXx

"There's a chance I won't be back before you're out o'here."

With the twins back under the weird lights for the jaundice shit, Sue and I are back in her room noshing on muffins from our favorite coffee shop that I stopped off for.

"I figured that was more likely than not. No worries, though. Aunt Colleen is definitely coming. She's supposed to call me back later today to firm up the date."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll make sure Charles knows. Have a room ready for her."

"No, no. I've been a busy little bee on the phone arranging things."

There's a long pause and I smell a tinge of anxiety. Fast as a nervous magpie, she says, "We're setting up housekeeping in the boathouse."

"Uh no" I mumble and gulp a dry hunk of banana-walnut muffin "We talked about this before. You're stayin' in the mansion 'til I get back."

"No dear, I'm not. And I'm hiring contractors to start on repairs to our house."

Coffee splashes out of the cup I set down too hard on the table. "Goddammit Sue! What do I gotta do to make you understand the boathouse ain't secure."

She harps, "The only way I'd be more secure is if you locked me up underground."

"Now you're talking."

"Don't be a smart ass."

"Then you starting usin' your brains and quit turning this into a power struggle."

"I am and it's not a power struggle."

I can't sit still for this. Shoving back on my chair it almost topples. Pacing, I'm thinking I don't need this shit. Is she stupid? Nah, she's freakin' hormonal. That's gotta be it.

I'm as close to begging as I'll ever be. Sucking in a deep breath, I force myself back into the chair. I brush a lock of hair off her forehead then stroke her cheek with my knuckle.

Keeping my voice even and soft, I plead, "Look at me darlin'."

Her eyes dart away then settle back to me.

"Please, please stay in the mansion. Just 'til I get back. After that, I work twenty-four seven makin' the repairs to the house m'self. I promise."

She bows her head and shudders. Taking hold of my hands, she raises her eyes, "It's that important to you?"

Lacing my fingers in hers, I nod.

Her voice wavers, "I don't want to fight, especially now. Maybe you're right about the power struggle thing."

I think, I know I'm right but just chuckle, "It's okay. I want back in a home of our own just as bad as you."

"Honestly, it's probably only going to be a day or two. We'll stay in the mansion 'til you come back."

xXx

The clock's winding down. Things are as settled as they're ever going to be.

Snuggled together on the hospital bed, we're quiet, loving each other with our eyes. Sue runs her hands over my cheek, twists strands of my hair around her fingers. I hold her close, pressing kisses in her hair, on her forehead, tip of her nose, her warm lips.

Necking, power snuggle, making out, whatever ya call it, it's a piss poor substitute for making love. It is what it is, though and I guess it'll be that much sweeter when I can lose myself in her soft body and loving heart.

Thinking, I ought to write that down, I chuckle and she asks, "What?"

"Nothin'," and I shush another question with a kiss.

She'd doing a fantastic job not outwardly showing her fear. But, I know she's scared to death about the mission. If I had any sense, wasn't what I am, I should be, too.

Right now, all I want is to get to it, get it done. I'm a warrior and she's a warrior's wife. This is how it goes. We revel in the peaceful, good times, cope with duty and do our best to deny the what-ifs.

Fuckin' strange I'm even thinking this shit. Never used to. Never mattered. I guess joining the real world, being domesticated, settling down does that.

I whisper, "Darlin', it's time," softly in her ear.

"I know."

We clutch each other and kiss deeply. She smiles through wet lashes.

"I love you. Call me soon as you can."

"Count on it."

I'm proud and grateful she doesn't make a scene. I'm in awe of her mettle to not go to mush because I swear to the fates, this ain't good bye.

She helps me on with my jacket. I pull her into one more kiss, "I love the twins. I love you." Then, backing away our hands reluctantly break contact.

Now it's time to compartmentalize. Turning my back to my mate, the woman I love, I leave. I bypass the nursery. I don't acknowledge anyone as I stride the corridors. By the time I reach the final exit, I become that warrior, release the animal. I am Wolverine with a solitary goal in mind.

I will kill Luc Diebel. I will terminate Weapon Plus. I will live to brag about it.

XXX

**_Reviews...PLEASE!_ **


	17. Chapter 18

For quite some time, the X-Men/Wolverine category of stories on FFN has been going in a different direction than I have. Even after thoughtful deliberation, it's painful to make a decision like this. Due to extremely low traffic/hit numbers and a lack of feedback, regrettably and apologetically, I choose to suspend posting A Means To An End .


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